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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


Illustrated  Cabinet  edition 

'Che  poetry  of  Hrcbitecture  &  & 
poems  r*  Giotto  and  f)is  Cdorfes 
in  padua  &  p  by  John  Rushin 


JMcrriU  and  Baker 

Publishers 

York  & 


THE 

POETRY    OF    ARCHITECTURE 

COTTAGE,  VILLA,  ETC. 

TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED  SUGGESTIONS  ON 
WORKS  OF  ART 

BY 

"KATA    PHUSIN" 

CONJECTURED   NOM-DE-PLUMK   OP 

JOHN  RUSKIN 


CONTENTS. 


THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


PAGK 


INTRODUCTION             .....  .5 

THE  COTTAGE. 

I.  THE  LOWLAND  COTTAGE. — ENGLAND  AND  FRANCE   .  9 

II.  THE  LOWLAND  COTTAGE. — ITALY  .           .            .  15 

III.  THE  MOUNTAIN  COTTAGE. — SWITZERLAND       .            .  25 

IV.  THK  MOUNTAIN  COTTAGE. — WESTMORELAND        .  .      33 
V.  A  CHAPTER  ON  CHIMNEYS          .  42 

THE  VILLA. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  VILLA. — LAGO  DI  COMO  .           .  .61 

I.  THE  ITALIAN  VILLA         .....  89 

II.  THE  LOWLAND  VILLA. — ENGLAND  .           .           .  .98 

III.  THE  ENGLISH  VILLA. — PRINCIPLES  OF  COMPOSITION  107 

IV.  THE  BRITISH  VILLA.    THE  CULTIVATED,  OR  BLUE  COUN- 

TRY.— PRINCIPLES  OF  COMPOSITION            .           .  119 
V.  THE   BRITISH   VILLA.    HILL,  OR   BROWN    COUNTRY. — 

PRINCIPLES  OF  COMPOSITION      .           .           .  -137 

POEMS. 

WORKS  OF  ART           .           .           .           .           .           .  .164 

SALTZBURG              .......  183 

FRAGMENTS. — Andernacht. — St.  Goar            .            .            .  .184 

THE  MONTHS          .......  iSC 

THE  LAST  SMILE        .......    187 

SONG            ..,,....  187 


SPRING  .          .          .          .          .          .          .          .188 

THE  SCYTHIAN  GRAVE     ......         189 

REMEMBRANCE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .191 

CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD  .....          192 

ARISTODEMUS  AT  PLAT^EA      ......    193 

SALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA. — A  Prize  Poem      .  .  .         194 

A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG  .....    204 

THE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST       ......         216 

THE  BROKEN  CHAIN  .  .  .  .  .  .223 

THE  TEARS  OF  PSAMMENITUS       .....         277 

THE  Two  PATHS         .  .  .  .  .          .  .283 

THE  OLD  WATER-WHEEL  .....          285 

THE  DEPARTED  LIGHT  .  .  .  .  .  .286 

AGONIA       ........         287 

THE  LAST  SONG  OF  ARION     ......    288 

THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA  .....          295 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTK  .....    297 

A  WALK  IN  CHAMOUNT     ......          305 

THE  OLD  SEAMAN      .....  .  .    308 

THE  ALPS     ........         310 

THE  BASSES  ALPS         .  .  .  .  .  .  .    311 

THE  GLACIER         .......         312 

GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA 

GIOTTO  AND  His  WORKS  IN  PADUA  .  .  *  313 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

PACK 

FIG.  i.  ITALIAN  COTTAGE  ....  19 

"  2.  CHIMNEY  OF  Swiss  COTTAGE  .  .  .  .26 

"  3.  END  OF  AN  ALPINE  LOG  HUT  ...  27 

"  4.  Swiss  WINTER  COTTAGE  .  .  .  .28 

"  5.  Swiss  MOUNTAIN  COTTAGE  ....  32 

"  6.  WINDOW  OF  A  WESTMORELAND  COTTAGE  .  .  37 

"  7,  8,  9  AND  21.  ENGLISH  CHIMNEYS  ...  47 

"  10.  A  NETHERLAND  CHIMNEY  .  .  .  -47 

"  ii  AND  12.  GERMAN  CHIMNEYS  ...  47 

"  13,  19  AND  20.  ITALIAN  CHIMNEYS  .  .  -47 

"  14  TO  18  INCLUSIVE.  SPANISH  CHIMNEYS  .  .  47 

"  22,  23  AND  24.  Swiss  CHIMNEYS  .  .  .  •  '  47 

"  25.  CONISTON  HALL  .....  49 
"  26.  SHOWING  OUTLINE  OF  TOP  OF  TREE  IN  THE  WOODY, 

OR  GREEN,  COUNTY  .  .  .  .  -57 

"  27.  VILLA  BELLAGGIO,  LAGO  DI  COMO  ...  69 

"  28.  VILLA  SOMMA-RIVA,  LAGO  DI  COMO  .  .  -70 

"  29.  HOLLOW  BALUSTRADE  .....  73 

"  30.  BALUSTRADE  .  .  .  .  .  -73 

"  31.  VILLA  PORRO,  LAGO  DI  COMO  ...  83 

"  32.  PILASTER  USED  IN  THE  ITALIAN  VILLA  .  .  92 

"  33.  ARCHES  OF  AN  ITALIAN  VILLA  93 
"  34»  35  AND  36-  CURVES  USED  IN  CONSTRUCTING  ITALIAN 

VILLAS     .           .           .           .           .           .  96,  97 

"  37.  AN  ENGLISH  LOWLAND  VILLA  .  .  .  105 
"  38,  39  AND  40.  WINDOWS  OF  ENGLISH  VILLAS  .  117,  118 
u  41.  INFLUENCE  OF  SHADE  .....  149 


PACK 

FIG.  42     AND  43.    CONTRAST          .  .  .  .  .153 

"    44.    VILLAGE  ON  THE  LAKE  OF  THUN     .  .  .         155 

"     45.    CURVES  USED  IN  CONSTRUCTING  ROOFS  OF  THE  BRIT- 
ISH VILLA          ......    156 

"     46.    ARTHUR'S  SEAT  NEAR  EDINBURGH   .  .  .174 

"     47.    CURVE  .  .  .  .  .  .  -175 

POEMS 

THE  OLD  WATER  WHEEL  .  .  .  FRONTISPIECE. 

GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

PLAN  OF  THE  ARENA  CHAPEL  .....  342 
INTERIOR  OF  THE  ARENA  CHAPEL,  PADUA,  LOOKING  EASTWARD  343 
WOOD  CUT  OF  CHRJST  ......  372 


THE    POETET 


OP 


ARCHITECTURE. 


INTRODUCTION. 

THE  Science  of  Architecture,  followed  out  to  its  full  extent,  is 
one  of  the  noblest  of  those  which  have  reference  only  to  the 
creations  of  human  minds.  It  is  not  merely  a  science  of  the 
rule  and  compass,  it  does  not  consist  only  in  the  observation 
of  just  rule,  or  of  fair  proportion :  it  is,  or  ought  to  be,  a 
science  of  feeling  more  than  of  rule,  a  ministry  to  the  mind, 
more  than  to  the  eye.  If  we  consider  how  much  less  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  a  building  depend  upon  its  pleasing 
certain  prejudices  of  the  eye,  than  upon  its  rousing  certain 
trains  of  meditation  in  the  mind,  it  will  show  in  a  moment 
how  many  intricate  questions  of  feeling  are  involved  in  the 
raising  of  an  edifice  ;  it  will  convince  us  of  the  truth  of  a 
proposition,  which  might  at  first  have  appeared  startling,  that 
no  man  can  be  an  architect,  who  is  not  a  metaphysician. 

To  the  illustration  of  the  department  of  this  noble  science 
which  may  be  designated  the  Poetry  of  Architecture,  this  and 
some  future  articles  will  be  dedicated.  It  is  this  peculiarity 
of  the  art  which  constitutes  its  nationality  ;  and  it  will  be 
found  as  interesting  as  it  is  useful,  to  trace  in  the  distinctive 
characters  of  the  architecture  of  nations,  not  only  its  adapta- 
tion to  the  situation  and  climate  in  which  it  has  arisen,  but 
its  strong  similarity  to,  and  connection  withs  the  prevailing 


6  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

turn  of  mind  by  which  the  nation  who  first  employed  it  is 
distinguished. 

I  consider  the  task  I  have  imposed  upon  myself  the  more 
necessary,  because  this  department  of  the  science,  perhaps  re- 
garded by  some  who  have  no  ideas  beyond  stone  and  mortar 
as  chimerical,  and  by  others  who  think  nothing  necessary  but 
truth  and  proportion  as  useless,  is  at  a  miserably  low  ebb  in 
England.  And  what  is  the  consequence  ?  We  have  Corin- 
thian columns  placed  beside  pilasters  of  no  order  at  all,  sur- 
mounted by  inonstrosified  pepper-boxes,  Gothic  in  form  and 
Grecian  in  detail,  in  a  building  nominally  and  peculiarly  na- 
tional ;  we  have  Swiss  cottages,  falsely  and  calumniously  so  en- 
titled, dropped  in  the  brick-fields  around  the  metropolis ;  and 
we  have  staring,  square-windowed,  flat-roofed  gentlemen's  seats, 
of  the  lath  and  plaster,  mock-magnificent,  Kegent's  Park  descrip- 
tion, rising  on  the  woody  promontories  of  Derwent  Water. 

How  deeply  is  it  to  be  regretted,  how  much  is  it  to  be  won- 
dered at,  that,  in  a  country  whose  school  of  painting,  though 
degraded  by  its  system  of  meretricious  colouring,  and  dis- 
graced by  hosts  of  would-be  imitators  of  inimitable  individu- 
als, is  yet  raised  by  the  distinguished  talent  of  those  indi- 
viduals to  a  place  of  well-deserved  honour ;  and  the  studios 
of  whose  sculptors  are  filled  with  designs  of  the  most  pure 
simplicity,  and  most  perfect  animation  ;  the  school  of  archi- 
tecture should  be  so  miserably  debased  ! 

There  are,  however,  many  reasons  for  a  fact  so  lamentable. 
In  the  first  place,  the  patrons  of  architecture  (I  am  speaking 
of  all  classes  of  buildings,  from  the  lowest  to  the  highest,)  are 
a  more  numerous  and  less  capable  class  than  those  of  paint- 
ing. The  general  public,  and  I  say  it  with  sorrow,  because  I 
know  it  from  observation,  have  little  to  do  with  the  encourage- 
ment of  the  school  of  painting,  beyond  the  power  which  they 
unquestionably  possess,  and  unmercifully  use,  of  compelling 
our  artists  to  substitute  glare  for  beauty.  Observe  the  direc- 
tion of  public  taste  at  any  of  our  exhibitions.  We  see  visitors, 
at  that  of  the  Society  of  Painters  in  Water  Colours,  passing 
Taylor  with  anathemas  and  Lewis  with  indifference,  to  remain 
in  reverence  and  admiration  before  certain  amiable  white 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

lambs  and  water-lilies,  whose  artists  shall  be  nameless.  We 
see  them,  in  the  Royal  Academy,  passing  by  Wilkie,  Turner, 
and  Callcott,  with  shrugs  of  doubt  or  of  scorn,  to  fix  in  gaziug 
and  enthusiastic  crowds  upon  kettles-full  of  witches,  and  His 
[Majesty's  ships  so  and  so  lying  to  in  a  gale,  &c.,  &c.  But 
these  pictures  attain  no  celebrity  because  the  public  admire 
them,  for  it  is  not  to  the  public  that  the  judgment  is  intrusted. 
It  is  by  the  chosen  few,  by  our  nobility  and  men  of  taste  and 
talent,  that  the  decision  is  made,  the  fame  bestowed,  and  the 
artist  encouraged.  Not  so  in  architecture.  There,  the  power 
is  generally  diffused.  Every  citizen  may  box  himself  up  in  as 
barbarous  a  tenement  as  suits  his  taste  or  inclination ;  the 
architect  is  his  vassal,  and  must  permit  him  not  only  to  criti- 
cise, but  to  perpetrate.  The  palace  or  the  nobleman's  seat 
may  be  raised  in  good  taste,  and  become  the  admiration  of  a 
nation  ;  but  the  influence  of  their  owner  is  terminated  by  the 
boundary  of  his  estate ;  he  has  no  command  over  the  adjacent 
scenery,  and  the  possessor  of  every  thirty  acres  around  him 
has  him  at  his  mercy.  The  streets  of  our  cities  are  examples 
of  the  effects  of  this  clashing  of  different  tastes  ;  and  they  are 
either  remarkable  for  the  utter  absence  of  all  attempt  at  em- 
bellishment, or  disgraced  by  every  variety  of  abomination. 

Again,  in  a  climate  like  ours,  those  few  who  have  knowledge 
and  feeling  to  distinguish  what  is  beautiful,  are  frequently 
prevented  by  various  circumstances  from  erecting  it.  John 
Bull's  comfort  perpetually  interferes  with  his  good  taste,  and 
I  should  be  the  first  to  lament  his  losing  so  much  of  his 
nationality,  as  to  permit  the  latter  to  prevail.  He  cannot  put 
his  windows  into  a  recess,  without  darkening  his  rooms  ;  he 
cannot  raise  a  narrow  gable  above  his  walls,  without  knock- 
ing his  head  against  the  rafters  ;  and,  worst  of  all,  he  cannot 
do  either,  without  being  stigmatized  by  the  awful,  inevitable 
epithet,  of  "a  very  odd  man."  But,  though  much  of  the 
degradation  of  our  present  school  of  architecture  is  owing  to 
the  want  or  the  unfitness  of  patrons,  surely  it  is  yet  more 
attributable  to  a  lamentable  deficiency  of  taste  and  talent 
among  our  architects  themselves.  It  is  true,  that  in  a  country 
affording  so  little  encouragement,  and  presenting  so  many 


3  TBE  POETR?  OF1  ARCHITECTURE. 

causes  for  its  absence,  it  cannot  be  expected  that  we  should 
have  any  Michael  Angelo  Buonarottis.  The  energy  of  our 
architects  is  expended  in  raising,  "neat"  poor-houses,  and 
"  pretty  "  charity  schools  ;  and,  if  they  ever  enter  upon  a  work 
of  a  higher  rank,  economy  is  the  order  of  the  day :  plaster 
and  stucco  are  substituted  for  granite  and  marble ;  rods  of 
splashed  iron  for  columns  of  verd-antique  ;  and,  in  the  wild 
struggle  after  novelty,  the  fantastic  is  mistaken  for  the  grace- 
ful, the  complicated  for  the  imposing,  superfluity  of  ornament 
for  beauty,  and  its  total  absence  for  simplicity. 

But  all  these  disadvantages  might  in  some  degree  be 
counteracted,  and  all  these  abuses  in  a  great  degree  prevented, 
were  it  not  for  the  slight  attention  paid  by  our  architects  to 
that  branch  of  the  art  which  I  have  above  designated  as  the 
Poetry  of  Architecture.  All  unity  of  feeling  (which  is  the  first 
principle  of  good  taste)  is  neglected  ;  we  see  nothing  but  in- 
congruous combination  :  we  have  pinnacles  without  height, 
windows  without  light,  columns  with  nothing  to  sustain,  and 
buttresses  with  nothing  to  support.  We  have  parish  paupers 
smoking  their  pipes  and  drinking  their  beer  under  Gothic 
arches  and  sculptured  niches  ;  and  quiet  old  English  gentle- 
men reclining  on  crocodile  stools,  and  peeping  out  of  the 
windows  of  Swiss  chalets. 

I  shall  attempt,  therefore,  to  endeavour  to  illustrate  the 
principle  from  the  neglect  of  which  these  abuses  have  arisen  ; 
that  of  unity  of  feeling,  the  basis  of  all  grace,  the  essence  of 
all  beauty.  We  shall  consider  the  architecture  of  nations  as 
it  is  influenced  by  their  feelings  and  manners,  as  it  is  con- 
nected with  the  scenery  in  which  it  is  found,  and  with  the 
skies  under  which  it  was  erected  ;  we  shall  be  led  as  much  to 
the  street  and  the  cottage  as  to  the  temple  and  the  tower  ;  and 
shall  be  more  interested  in  buildings  raised  by  feeling,  than  in 
those  corrected  by  rule.  We  shall  commence  with  the  lower 
class  of  edifices,  proceeding  from  the  road-side  to  the  village, 
and  from  the  village  to  the  city  ;  and,  if  we  succeed  in  direct- 
ing the  attention  of  a  single  individual  more  directly  to  this 
most  interesting  department  of  the  science  of  architecture,  we 
shall  not  have  written  in  vain. 


THE    COTTAGE. 


THE    COTTAGE. 

1.  The  Lowland  Cottage. — England  and  France. 

OF  all  embellishments  by  which  the  efforts  of  man  can  en- 
hance the  beauty  of  natural  scenery,  those  are  the  most  effec- 
tive which  can  give  animation  to  the  scene,  while  the  spirit 
which  they  bestow  is  in  unison  with  its  general  character. 
It  is  generally  desirable  to  indicate  the  presence  of  animated 
existence  in  a  scene  of  natural  beauty  ;  but  only  of  such  exist- 
ence as  shall  be  imbued  with  the  spirit,  and  shall  partake 
of  the  essence,  of  the  beauty,  which,  without  it,  would  be 
dead.  If  our  object,  therefore,  is  to  embellish  a  scene  the 
character  of  which  is  peaceful  and  unpretending,  we  must  not 
erect  a  building  fit  for  the  abode  of  wealth  or  pride.  How- 
ever beautiful  or  imposing  in  itself,  such  an  object  immedi- 
ately indicates  the  presence  of  a  kind  of  existence  unsuited  to 
the  scenery  which  it  inhabits  ;  and  of  a  mind  which,  when  it 
sought  retirement,  was  unacquainted  with  its  own  ruling  feel- 
ings, and  which  consequently  excites  no  sympathy  in  ours  ; 
but,  if  we  erect  a  dwelling  which  may  appear  adapted  to  the 
wants,  and  sufficient  for  the  comfort,  of  a  gentle  heart  and 
lowly  mind,  we  have  instantly  attained  our  object :  we  have 
bestowed  animation,  but  we  have  not  disturbed  repose. 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  cottage  is  one  of  the  embellish- 
ments of  natural  scenery  which  deserve  attentive  considera- 
tion. It  is  beautiful  always,  and  everywhere  ;  whether  look- 
ing out  of  the  woody  dingle  with  its  eye-like  window,  and 
sending  up  the  motion  of  azure  smoke  between  the  silver 
trunks  of  aged  trees  ;  or  grouped  among  the  bright  corn- 
fields of  the  fruitful  plain  ;  or  forming  grey  clusters  along  the 
slope  of  the  mountain  side,  the  cottage  always  gives  the  idea 
of  a  thing  to  be  beloved  :  a  quiet  life-giving  voice,  that  is  as 
peaceful  as  silence  itself. 

"With  these  feelings,  we  shall  devote  some  time  to  the  con- 


10  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

sideration  of  the  prevailing  characters,  and  national  peculiar- 
ities, of  European  cottages.  The  principal  thing  worthy  of 
observation  in  the  lowland  cottage  of  England  is  its  finished 
neatness.  The  thatch  is  firmly  pegged  down,  and  mathemat- 
ically leveled  at  the  edges  ;  and,  though  the  martin  is  per- 
mitted to  attach  his  humble  domicile,  in  undisturbed  security, 
to  the  eaves,  he  may  be  considered  as  enhancing  the  effect  of 
the  cottage,  by  increasing  its  usefulness,  and  making  it  con- 
tribute to  the  comfort  of  more  beings  than  one.  The  white- 
wash is  stainless,  and  its  rough  surface  catches  a  side  light  as 
brightly  as  a  front  one  :  the  luxuriant  rose  is  trained  grace- 
fully over  the  window  ;  and  the  gleaming  lattice,  divided  not 
into  heavy  squares,  but  into  small  pointed  diamonds,  is  thrown 
half  open,  as  is  just  discovered  by  its  glance  among  the  green 
leaves  of  the  sweetbrier,  to  admit  the  breeze,  that,  as  it  passes 
over  the  flowers,  becomes  full  of  their  fragrance.  The  light 
wooden  porch  breaks  the  flat  of  the  cottage  face  by  its  projec- 
tion ;  and  a  branch  or  two  of  wandering  honeysuckle  spread 
over  the  low  hatch.  A  few  square  feet  of  garden,  and  a 
latched  wicket,  persuading  the  weary  and  dusty  pedestrian, 
with  expressive  eloquence,  to  lean  upon  it  for  an  instant,  and 
request  a  drink  of  water  or  milk,  complete  a  picture,  which, 
if  it  be  far  enough  from  London  to  be  unspoiled  by  town 
sophistications,  is  a  very  perfect  thing  in  its  way.  The  ideas 
it  awakens  are  agreeable  ;  and  the  architecture  is  all  that  we 
want  in  such  a  situation.  It  is  pretty  and  appropriate  ;  and,  if 
it  boasted  of  any  other  perfection,  it  would  be  at  the  expense 
of  its  propriety. 

Let  us  now  cross  the  Channel,  and  endeavour  to  find  a 
country  cottage  on  the  other  side,  if  we  can  ;  for  it  is  a  diffi- 
cult matter.  There  are  many  villages  ;  but  such  a  thing  as 
an  isolated  cottage  is  extremely  rare.  Let  us  try  one  or  two 
of  the  green  valleys  among  the  chalk  eminences  which  sweep 
from  Abbeville  to  Rouen.  Here  is  a  cottage  at  last,  and  a 
picturesque  one,  which  is  more  than  we  could  say  for  the  Eng- 
lish domicile.  What,  then,  is  the  difference  ?  There  is  a  gen- 
eral air  of  nonchalance  about  the  French  peasant's  habitation, 
•vriuch  as  aided  by  a  perfect  want  of  everything  like  neatness ; 


THE    COTTAGE.  11 

and  rendered  more  conspicuous  by  some  points  about  the 
building  which  have  a  look  of  neglected  beauty,  and  obliter- 
ated ornament.  Half  of  the  whitewash  is  worn  off,  and  the 
other  half  coloured  by  various  mosses  and  wandering  lichens, 
which  have  been  permitted  to  vegetate  upon  it,  and  which, 
though  beautiful,  constitute  a  kind  of  beauty  from  which  the 
ideas  of  age  and  decay  are  inseparable.  The  tall  roof  of  the 
garret  window  stands  fantastically  out ;  and  underneath  it, 
where,  in  England,  we  had  a  plain  double  lattice,  is  a  deep 
recess,  flatly  arched  at  the  top,  built  of  solid  masses  of  grey 
stone,  fluted  on  the  edge ;  while  the  brightness  of  the  glass 
within  (if  there  be  any)  is  lost  in  shade,  causing  the  recess  to 
appear  to  the  observer  like  a  dark  eye.  The  door  has  the 
same  character  :  it  is  also  of  stone,  which  is  so  much  broken 
and  disguised  as  to  prevent  it  from  giving  any  idea  of  strength 
or  stability.  The  entrance  is  always  open  :  no  roses,  or  any- 
thing else,  are  wreathed  about  it ;  several  out-houses,  built  in 
the  same  style,  give  the  building  extent ;  and  the  group  (in 
all  probability,  the  dependency  of  some  large  old  chdteau  in 
the  distance)  does  not  peep  out  of  copse,  or  thicket,  or  a  group 
of  tall  and  beautiful  trees,  but  stands  comfortlessly  between 
two  individuals  of  the  column  of  long-trunked  fac-simile 
elms,  which  keep  guard  along  the  length  of  the  public  road. 

Now,  let  it  be  observed  how  perfectly,  how  singularly  the 
distinctive  characters  of  these  two  cottages  agree  with  those 
of  the  countries  in  which  they  are  built ;  and  of  the  people 
for  whose  use  they  are  constructed.  England  is  a  country 
whose  every  scene  is  in  miniature.  Its  green  valleys  are  not 
wide  ;  its  dewy  hills  are  not  high  ;  its  forests  are  of  no  extent, 
or,  rather,  it  has  nothing  that  can  pretend  to  a  more  sounding 
'title  than  that  of  "wood."  Its  champaigns  are  minutely 
chequered  into  fields  :  we  never  can  see  far  at  a  time  ;  and 
there  is  a  sense  of  something  inexpressible,  except  by  the 
truly  English  word,  "snug,"  in  every  quiet  nook  and  shel- 
tered lane.  The  English  cottage,  therefore,  is  equally  small, 
equally  sheltered,  equally  invisible  at  a  distance. 

But  France  is  a  country  on  a  large  scale.  Low,  but  long, 
hills  sweep  away  for  miles  into  vast  uninterrupted  cham- 


12  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

paigns  ;  immense  forests  shadow  the  country  for  hundreds  of 
square  miles,  without  once  letting  through  the  light  of  day  ; 
its  pastures  and  arable  land  are  divided  on  the  same  scale  ; 
there  are  no  fences  ;  we  can  hardly  place  ourselves  in  any 
spot  where  we  shall  not  see  for  leagues  around  ;  and  there  is 
a  kind  of  comfortless  sublimity  in  the  size  of  every  scene. 
The  French  cottage,  therefore,  is  on  the  same  scale,  equally 
large  and  desolate-looking ;  but  we  shall  see,  presently,  that 
it  can  arouse  feelings  which,  though  they  cannot  be  said  to 
give  it  sublimity,  yet  are  of  a  higher  order  than  any  which 
can  be  awakened  at  the  sight  of  the  English  cottage. 

Again,  every  bit  of  cultivated  ground  in  England  has  a  fin- 
ished neatness  ;  the  fields  are  all  divided  by  hedges  or  fences  ; 
the  fruit  trees  are  neatly  pruned,  the  roads  beautifully  made, 
&c.  Everything  is  the  reverse  in  France :  the  fields  are  dis- 
tinguished by  the  nature  of  the  crops  they  bear ;  the  fruit 
trees  are  overgrown  with  moss  and  mistletoe  ;  and  the  roads 
immeasurably  wide,  and  miserably  made. 

So  much  for  the  character  of  the  two  cottages,  as  they  as- 
similate with  the  countries  in  which  they  are  found.  Let  us 
now  see  how  they  assimilate  with  the  character  of  the  people 
by  whom  they  are  built.  England  is  a  country  of  perpetually 
increasing  prosperity  and  active  enterprise  ;  but,  for  that  very 
reason,  nothing  is  allowed  to  remain  till  it  gets  old.  Large 
old  trees  are  cut  down  for  timber  ;  old  houses  are  pulled  down 
for  the  materials ;  and  old  furniture  is  laughed  at  and  neg- 
lected. Everything  is  perpetually  altered  and  renewed  by  the 
activity  of  invention  and  improvement.  The  cottage,  conse- 
quently, has  no  dilapidated  look  about  it ;  it  is  never  suffered 
to  get  old  ;  it  is  used  as  long  as  it  is  comfortable,  and  then 
taken  down  and  rebuilt ;  for  it  was  originally  raised  in  a  style 
incapable  of  resisting  the  ravages  of  time.  But,  in  France, 
there  prevail  two  opposite  feelings,  both  in  the  extreme  :  that 
of  the  old-pedigreed  population,  which  preserves  unlimitedly  ; 
and  that  of  the  modern  revolutionists,  which  destroys  unmer- 
cifully. Every  object  has  partly  the  appearance  of  having 
been  preserved  with  infinite  care  from  an  indefinite  age,  and 
partly  exhibits  the  evidence  of  recent  ill-treatment  and  disfig- 


THE   COTTAGE.  13 

uration.  Primeval  forests  rear  their  vast  trunks  over  those 
of  many  younger  generations  growing  up  beside  them  ;  the 
chateau  or  the  palace,  showing,  by  its  style  of  architecture,  its 
venerable  age,  bears  the  marks  of  the  cannon  ball,  and,  from 
neglect,  is  withering  into  desolation.  Little  is  renewed: 
there  is  little  spirit  of  improvement ;  and  the  customs  which 
prevailed  centuries  ago  are  still  taught  by  the  patriarchs  of 
the  families  to  their  grandchildren.  The  French  cottage, 
therefore,  is  just  such  as  we  should  have  expected  from  the 
disposition  of  its  inhabitants  :  its  massive  windows,  its  broken 
ornaments,  its  whole  air  and  appearance,  all  tell  the  same  tale 
of  venerable  age,  respected  and  preserved,  till  at  last  its  di- 
lapidation wears  an  appearance  of  neglect.  Again,  the  Eng- 
lishman will  sacrifice  everything  to  comfort,  and  will  not  only 
take  great  pains  to  secure  it,  but  he  has  generally  also  the 
power  of  doing  so  ;  for  the  English  peasant  is,  on  the  average, 
wealthier  than  the  French.  The  French  peasant  has  no  idea 
of  comfort,  and,  therefore,  makes  no  effort  to  secure  it.  This 
difference  in  the  character  of  their  inhabitants  is,  as  we  have 
seen,  written  on  the  fronts  of  the  respective  cottages.  The 
Englishman  is,  also,  fond  of  display  ;  but  the  ornaments,  ex- 
terior and  interior,  with  which  he  adorns  his  dwelling,  how- 
ever small  it  may  be,  are  either  to  show  the  extent  of  his 
possessions,  or  to  contribute  to  some  personal  profit  or  grati- 
fication :  they  never  seem  designed  for  the  sake  of  ornament 
alone.  Thus,  his  wife's  love  of  display  is  shown  by  the  rows 
of  useless  crockery  in  her  cupboard  ;  and  his  own  by  the 
rose  tree  at  the  front  door,  from  which  he  may  obtain  an  early 
bud  to  stick  in  the  button-hole  of  his  best  blue  coat  on  Sun- 
days :  the  honeysuckle  is  cultivated  for  its  smell,  the  garden 
for  its  cabbages.  Not  so  in  France.  There,  the  meanest 
peasant,  with  an  equal  or  greater  love  of  display,  embellishes 
his  dwelling  as  much  as  lies  in  his  power,  solely  for  the  grat- 
ification of  his  feeling  of  what  is  agreeable  to  the  eye.  The 
gable  of  his  roof  is  prettily  shaped  ;  the  niche  at  its  corner  is 
richly  carved  ;  the  wooden  beams,  if  there  be  any,  are  fash- 
ioned into  grotesque  figures  ;  and  even  the  "  air  neglige  "  and 
general  dilapidation  of  the  building  tell  a  thousand  times 


14:  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE, 

more  agreeably  to  an  eye  accustomed  to  the  picturesque, 
than  the  spruce  preservation  of  the  English  cottage. 

No  building  which  we  feel  to  excite  a  sentiment  of  mere 
complacency  can  be  said  to  be  in  good  taste.  On  the  con- 
trary, when  the  building  is  of  such  a  class,  that  it  can  neither 
astonish  by  its  beauty,  nor  impress  by  its  sublimity,  and  when 
it  is  likewise  placed  in  a  situation  so  uninteresting  as  to  ren- 
der something  more  than  mere  fitness  or  propriety  necessary, 
and  to  compel  the  eye  to  expect  something  from  the  building 
itself,  a  gentle  contrast  of  feeling  in  that  building  is  exceed- 
ingly desirable  ;  and,  if  possible,  a  sense  that  something  has 
passed  away,  the  presence  of  which  would  have  bestowed  a 
deeper  interest  on  the  whole  scene.  The  fancy  will  imme- 
diately try  to  recover  this,  and,  in  the  endeavour,  will  obtain 
the  desired  effect  from  an  indefinite  cause. 

Now,  the  French  cottage  cannot  please  by  its  propriety,  for 
it  can  only  be  adapted  to  the  ugliness  around;  and,  as  it 
ought  to  be,  and  cannot  but  be,  adapted  to  this,  it  is  still  less 
able  to  please  by  its  beauty.  How,  then,  can  it  please? 
There  is  no  pretence  to  gaiety  in  its  appearance,  no  green 
flower-pots  in  ornamental  lattices ;  but  the  substantial  style  of 
any  ornaments  it  may  possess,  the  recessed  windows,  the 
stone  carvings,  and  the  general  size  of  the  whole,  unite  to 
produce  an  impression  of  the  building  having  once  been  fit 
for  the  residence  of  prouder  inhabitants  ;  of  its  having  once 
possessed  strength,  which  is  now  withered,  and  beauty,  which 
is  now  faded.  This  sense  of  something  lost ;  something  which 
has  been,  and  is  not,  is  precisely  what  is  wanted.  The  imag- 
ination is  set  actively  to  work  in  an  instant ;  and  we  are  made 
aware  of  the  presence  of  a  beauty,  the  more  pleasing  because 
visionary  ;  and,  while  the  eye  is  pitying  the  actual  humility  of 
the  present  building,  the  mind  is  admiring  the  imagined 
pride  of  the  past.  Every  mark  of  dilapidation  increases  this 
feeling ;  while  these  very  marks  (the  fractures  of  the  stone, 
the  lichens  of  the  mouldering  wall,  and  the  graceful  lines  of 
the  sinking  roof)  are  all  delightful  in  themselves. 

Thus,  we  have  shown  that,  while  the  English  cottage  is 
pretty  from  its  propriety,  the  French  cottage,  having  the  same 


THE    COTTAGE.  15 

connexion  with  its  climate,  country,  and  people,  produces 
such  a  contrast  of  feeling  as  bestows  on  it  a  beauty  address- 
ing itself  to  the  mind,  and  is  therefore  in  perfectly  good  taste. 
If  we  are  asked  why,  in  this  instance,  good  taste  produces 
only  what  every  traveller  feels  to  be  not  in  the  least  striking, 
we  reply  that,  where  the  surrounding  circumstances  are  un- 
favourable, the  very  adaptation  to  them  which  we  have  de- 
clared to  be  necessary  renders  the  building  uninteresting ; 
and  that,  in  the  next  paper,  we  shall  see  a  very  different  re- 
sult from  the  operations  of  equally  good  taste  in  adapting  a 
cottage  to  its  situation,  in  one  of  the  noblest  districts  of  Eu- 
rope. Our  subject  will  be,  the  Lowland  Cottage  of  North 
Italy. 

Oxford,  Sept.,  1837. 


IL   The  Lowland  Cottage. — Italy. 
"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy." 

LET  it  not  be  thought  that  we  are  unnecessarily  detaining 
our  readers  from  the  proposed  subject,  if  we  premise  a  few 
remarks  on  the  character  of  the  landscape  of  the  countiy  we 
have  now  entered.  It  will  always  be  necessary  to  obtain 
some  definite  knowledge  of  the  distinctive  features  of  a  coun- 
try, before  we  can  form  a  just  estimate  of  the  beauties  or  the 
errors  of  its  architecture.  We  wish  our  readers  to  imbue 
themselves  as  far  as  may  be  with  the  spirit  of  the  clime  which 
we  are  now  entering ;  to  cast  away  all  general  ideas  ;  to  look 
only  for  unison  of  feeling,  and  to  pronounce  everything  wrong 
which  is  contrary  to  the  humours  of  nature.  We  must  make 
them  feel  where  they  are  ;  we  must  throw  a  peculiar  light  and 
colour  over  their  imaginations  ;  then  we  will  bring  their  judg- 
ment into  play,  for  then  it  will  be  capable  of  just  operation. 

We  have  passed,  it  must  be  observed  (in  leaving  England 
and  France  for  Italy),  from  comfort  to  desolation  ;  from  ex- 
citement to  sadness  :  we  have  left  one  country  prosperous  in 
its  prime,  and  another  frivolous  in  its  age,  for  one  glorious  in 
its  death. 


16  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

Now,  we  have  prefixed  the  hackneyed  line  of  H  Penseros* 
to  our  paper,  because  it  is  a  definition  of  the  essence  of  the 
beautiful.  What  is  most  musical  will  always  be  found  most 
melancholy ;  and  no  real  beauty  can  be  obtained  without  a 
touch  of  sadness.  Whenever  the  beautiful  loses  its  melan- 
choly, it  degenerates  into  prettiness.  We  appeal  to  the  mem- 
ories of  all  our  observing  readers,  whether  they  have  treas- 
ured up  any  scene,  pretending  to  be  more  than  pretty,  which 
has  not  about  it  either  a  tinge  of  melancholy  or  a  sense  of 
danger :  the  one  constitutes  the  beautiful,  the  other  the  sub- 
lime. 

This  postulate  being  granted,  as  we  are  sure  it  will  by  most 
(and  we  beg  to  assure  those  who  are  refractory  or  argumenta- 
tive, that,  were  this  a  treatise  on  the  sublime  and  beautiful, 
we  could  convince  and  quell  their  incredulity  to  their  entire 
satisfaction  by  innumerable  instances),  we  proceed  to  remark 
here,  once  for  all,  that  the  principal  glory  of  the  Italian  land- 
scape is  its  extreme  melancholy.  It  is  fitting  that  it  should 
be  so  :  the  dead  are  the  nations  of  Italy  ;  her  name  and  her 
strength  are  dwelling  with  the  pale  nations  underneath  the 
earth  ;  the  chief  and  chosen  boast  of  her  utmost  pride  is  the 
hie  jacet ;  she  is  but  one  wide  sepulchre,  and  all  her  present 
life  is  like  a  shadow  or  a  memory.  And,  therefore,  or,  rather, 
by  a  most  beautiful  coincidence,  her  national  tree  is  the  cy- 
press ;  and  whoever  has  marked  the  peculiar  character  which 
these  noble  shadowy  spires  can  give  to  her  landscape,  lifting 
their  majestic  troops  of  waving  darkness  from  beside  the 
fallen  column,  or  out  of  the  midst  of  the  silence  of  the  shad- 
owed temple  and  worshipless  shrine,  seen  far  and  wide  over 
the  blue  of  the  faint  plain,  without  loving  the  dark  trees  for 
their  sympathy  with  the  sadness  of  Italy's  sweet  cemetery 
shore,  is  one  who  profanes  her  soil  with  his  footsteps.  Every 
part  of  the  landscape  is  in  unison ;  the  same  glory  of  mourn- 
ing is  thrown  over  the  whole  ;  the  deep  blue  of  the  heavens 
is  mingled  with  that  of  the  everlasting  hills,  or  melted  away 
into  the  silence  of  the  sapphire  sea ;  the  pale  cities,  temple 
and  tower,  lie  gleaming  along  the  champaign ;  but  how 
calmly !  no  hum  of  men ;  no  motion  of  multitude  in  the 


THE    COTTAGE.  17 

midst  of  them  ;  they  are  voiceless  as  the  city  of  ashes.  The 
transparent  air  is  gentle  among  the  blossoms  of  the  orange 
and  the  dim  leaves  of  the  olive  ;  and  the  small  fountains, 
which,  in  any  other  land,  would  spring  merrily  along,  spark- 
ling and  singing  among  tinkling  pebbles,  here  flow  calmly  and 
silently  into  some  pale  font  of  marble,  all  beautiful  with  life, 
worked  by  some  unknown  hand,  long  ago  nerveless,  and  fall 
and  pass  on  among  wan  flowers,  and  scented  copse,  through 
cool  leaf-lighted  caves  or  grey  Egerian  grottos,  to  join  the 
Tiber  or  Eridanus,  to  swell  the  waves  of  Nemi,  or  the  Larian 
Lake.  The  most  minute  objects  (leaf,  flower,  and  stone), 
while  they  add  to  the  beauty,  seem  to  share  in  the  sadness  of 
the  whole. 

But,  if  one  principal  character  of  Italian  landscape  is  melan- 
choly, another  is  elevation.  We  have  no  simple  rusticity  of 
scene,  no  cowslip  and  buttercup  humility  of  seclusion.  Tall 
mulberry  trees,  with  festoons  of  the  luxuriant  vine,  purple  with 
ponderous  clusters,  trailed  and  trellised  between  and  over 
them,  shade  the  wide  fields  of  stately  Indian  corn  ;  luxuriance 
of  lofty  vegetation  (catalpa,  and  aloe,  and  olive),  ranging  itself 
in  lines  of  massy  light  along  the  wan  champaign,  guides  the 
eye  away  to  the  unfailing  wall  of  mountain,  Alp  or  Apennine 
no  cold  long  range  of  shivery  grey,  but  dazzling  light  of  snow, 
or  undulating  breadth  of  blue,  fainter  and  darker  in  infinite 
variety ;  peak,  precipice,  and  promontory  passing  away  into 
the  wooded  hills,  each  with  its  tower  or  white  village  sloping 
into  the  plain ;  castellated  battlements  cresting  their  undula- 
tions ;  some  wide  majestic  river  gliding  along  the  champaign, 
the  bridge  on  its  breast  and  the  city  on  its  shore  ;  the  whole 
canopied  with  cloudless  azure,  basking  in  mistless  sunshine, 
breathing  the  silence  of  odoriferous  air.  Now  comes  the 
question.  In  a  country  of  this  pomp  of  natural  glory,  tem- 
pered with  melancholy  memory  of  departed  pride,  what  are 
we  to  wish  for,  what  are  we  naturally  to  expect,  in  the  char- 
acter of  her  most  humble  edifices  ;  those  which  are  most  con- 
nected with  present  life,  least  with  the  past  ?  What  are  we 
to  consider  fitting  or  beautiful  in  her  cottage  ? 

We  do  not  expect  it  to  be  comfortable,  when  everything 


18  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

around  it  betokens  decay  and  desolation  in  the  works  of  man. 
We  do  not  wish  it  to  be  neat,  where  nature  is  most  beautiful 
because  neglected.  But  we  naturally  look  for  an  elevation  of 
character,  a  richness  of  design  or  form,  which,  while  the  build- 
ing is  kept  a  cottage,  may  yet  give  it  a  peculiar  air  of  cottage 
aristocracy  ;  a  beauty  (no  matter  how  dilapidated)  which  may 
appear  to  have  been  once  fitted  for  the  surrounding  splen- 
dour of  scene  and  climate.  Now,  let  us  fancy  an  Italian  cottage 
before  us.  The  reader  who  has  travelled  in  Italy  will  find 
little  difficulty  in  recalling  one  to  his  memory,  with  its  broad 
lines  of  light  and  shadow,  and  its  strange,  but  not  unpleasing 
mixture  of  grandeur  and  desolation.  Let  us  examine  its  de- 
tails, enumerate  its  architectural  peculiarities,  and  see  how  far 
it  agrees  with  our  preconceived  idea  of  what  the  cottage  ought 
to  be? 

The  first  remarkable  point  of  the  building  is  the  roof.  It 
generally  consists  of  tiles  of  very  deep  curvature,  which  rib  it 
into  distinct  vertical  lines,  giving  it  a  far  more  agreeable  sur- 
face than  that  of  our  flatter  tiling.  The  form  of  the  roof, 
however,  is  always  excessively  flat,  so  as  never  to  let  it  intrude 
upon  the  eye  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  that,  while  an  English 
village,  seen  at  a  distance,  appears  all  red  roof,  the  Italian  is 
all  white  wall ;  and,  therefore,  though  always  bright,  is  never 
gaudy.  We  have  in  these  roofs  an  excellent  example  of  what 
should  always  be  kept  in  mind,  that  everything  will  be  found 
beautiful,  which  climate  or  situation  render  useful.  The 
strong  and  constant  heat  of  the  Italian  sun  would  be  intoler- 
able if  admitted  at  the  windows  ;  and,  therefore,  the  edges  of 
the  roof  project  far  over  the  walls,  and  throw  long  shadows 
downwards,  so  as  to  keep  the  upper  windows  constantly  cool. 
These  long  oblique  shadows  on  the  white  surface  are  always, 
delightful,  and  are  alone  sufficient  to  give  the  building  char- 
acter. They  are  peculiar  to  the  buildings  of  Spain  and  Italy  ; 
for  owing  to  the  general  darker  colour  of  those  of  more  north- 
erly climates,  the  shadows  of  their  roofs,  however  far  thrown, 
do  not  tell  distinctly,  and  render  them,  not  varied,  but 
gloomy.  Another  ornamental  use  of  these  shadows  is,  that 
they  break  the  line  of  junction  of  tbs  wall  with  the  roof :  a. 


20  TSE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

point  always  desirable,  and  in  every  kind  of  building,  whether 
we  have  to  do  with  lead,  slate,  tile,  or  thatch,  one  of  extreme 
difficulty.  This  object  is  farther  forwarded  in  the  Italian  cot- 
tage, by  putting  two  or  three  windows  up  under  the  very  eaves 
themselves,  which  is  also  done  for  coolness,  so  that  their  tops 
are  formed  by  the  roof  ;  and  the  wall  has  the  appearance  of 
having  been  terminated  by  large  battlements,  and  roofed  over. 
And,  finally,  the  eaves  are  seldom  kept  long  on  the  same  level : 
double  or  treble  rows  of  tiling  are  introduced  ;  long  sticks 
and  irregular  woodwork  are  occasionally  attached  to  them,  to 
assist  the  festoons  of  the  vines ;  and  the  graceful  irregularity 
and  marked  character  of  the  whole  ;  must  be  dwelt  on  with 
equal  delight  by  the  eye  of  the  poet,  the  artist,  or  the  un- 
prejudiced architect.  All,  however,  is  exceedingly  humble  ; 
we  have  not  yet  met  with  the  elevation  of  character  we  ex- 
pected. We  shall  find  it,  however,  as  we  proceed. 

The  next  point  of  interest  is  the  window.  The  modern 
Italian  is  completely  owl-like  in  his  habits.  All  the  daytime, 
he  lies  idle  and  inert ;  but  during  the  night  he  is  all  activity ; 
but  it  is  mere  activity  of  inoccupation.  Idleness,  partly  in- 
duced by  the  temperature  of  the  climate,  and  partly  conse- 
quent on  the  decaying  prosperity  of  the  nation,  leaves  indica- 
tions of  its  influence  on  all  his  undertakings.  He  prefers 
patching  up  a  ruin  to  building  a  house  ;  he  raises  shops  and 
hovels,  the  abodes  of  inactive,  vegetating,  brutish  poverty, 
under  the  protection  of  the  aged  and  ruined,  yet  stalwart, 
arches  of  the  Roman  amphitheatre  ;  and  the  habitations  of 
the  lower  orders  frequently  present  traces  of  ornament  and 
stability  of  material  evidently  belonging  to  the  remains  of  a 
prouder  edifice.  This  is  the  case  sometimes  to  such  a  degree 
as,  in  another  country,  would  be  disagreeable  from  its  impro- 
priety ;  but,  in  Italy,  it  corresponds  with  the  general  promi- 
nence of  the  features  of  a  past  age,  and  is  always  beautiful. 
Thus,  the  eye  rests  with  delight  on  the  broken  mouldings  of 
the  windows,  and  the  sculptured  capitals  of  the  corner  col- 
umns, contrasted,  as  they  are,  the  one  with  the  glassless  black- 
ness within,  the  other  with  the  ragged  and  dirty  confusion  of 
drapery  around.  The  Italian  window,  in  general,  is  a  mere 


THE    COTTAGE.  21 

hole  in  the  thick  wall,  always  well  proportioned  ;  occasionally 
arched  at  the  top,  sometimes  with  the  addition  of  a  little  rich 
ornament  ;  seldom,  if  ever,  having  any  casement  or  glass,  but 
filled  up  with  any  bit  of  striped  or  colored  cloth,  which  may 
have  the  slightest  chance  of  deceiving  the  distant  observer 
into  the  belief  that  it  is  a  legitimate  blind.  This  keeps  off  the 
sun,  and  allows  a  free  circulation  of  air,  which  is  the  great 
object.  When  it  is  absent,  the  window  becomes  a  mere  black 
hole,  having  much  the  same  relation  to  a  glazed  window  that 
the  hollow  of  a  skull  has  to  a  bright  eye  ;  not  unexpressive,  but 
frowning  and  ghastly,  and  giving  a  disagreeable  impression  of 
utter  emptiness  and  desolation  within.  Yet  there  is  character 
in  them  :  the  black  dots  tell  agreeably  on  the  walls  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  have  no  disagreeable  sparkle  to  disturb  the  repose 
of  surrounding  scenery.  Besides,  the  temperature  renders 
everything  agreeable  to  the  eye,  which  gives  it  an  idea  of  ven- 
tilation. A  few  roughly  constructed  balconies,  projecting 
from  detached  windows,  usually  break  the  uniformity  of  the 
wall.  In  some  Italian  cottages  there  are  wooden  galleries,  re- 
sembling those  so  frequently  seen  in  Switzerland  ;  but  this  is 
not  a  very  general  character,  except  in  the  mountain  valleys 
of  North  Italy,  although  sometimes  a  passage  is  effected  from 
one  projecting  portion  of  a  house  to  another  by  means  of  an 
exterior  gallery.  These  are  very  delightful  objects  ;  and, 
when  shaded  by  luxuriant  vines,  which  is  frequently  the  case, 
impart  a  gracefulness  to  the  building  otherwise  unattainable. 
The  next  striking  point  is  the  arcade  at  the  base  of  the 
building.  This  is  general  in  cities  ;  and,  though  frequently 
wanting  to  the  cottage,  is  present  often  enough  to  render  it 
an  important  feature.  In  fact,  the  Italian  cottage  is  usually 
found  in  groups.  Isolated  buildings  are  rare  ;  and  the  arcade 
affords  an  agreeable,  if  not  necessary  shade  in  passing  from 
one  building  to  another.  It  is  a  still  more  unfailing  feature 
of  the  Swiss  city,  where  it  is  useful  in  deep  snow.  But  the 
supports  of  the  arches  in  Switzerland  are  generally  square 
masses  of  wall,  varying  in  size,  separating  the  arches  by  irreg- 
ular intervals,  and  sustained  by  broad  and  massy  buttresses  ; 
while,  in  Italy,  the  arches  generally  rest  on  legitimate  columns, 


2?  THE  POETRY   OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

varying  in  height  from  one  and  a  half  to  four  diameters,  with 
huge  capitals,  not  unfrequently  rich  in  detail.  These  give 
great  gracefulness  to  the  buildings  in  groups :  they  will  be 
spoken  of  more  at  large  when  we  are  treating  of  arrangement 
and  situation. 

The  square  tower,  rising  over  the  roof  of  the  farther  cot- 
tage, will  not  escape  observation.  It  has  been  allowed  to  re- 
main, not  because  such  elevated  buildings  ever  belong  to 
mere  cottages,  but,  first,  that  the  truth  of  the  scene  might 
not  be  destroyed  ;  and,  secondly,  because  it  is  impossible,  or 
nearly  so,  to  obtain  a  group  of  buildings  of  any  sort,  in  Italy, 
without  one  or  more  such  objects  rising  behind  them,  beauti- 
fully contributing  to  destroy  the  monotony,  and  contrast  with 
the  horizontal  lines  of  the  flat  roofs  and  square  walls.  We 
think  it  right,  therefore,  to  give  the  cottage  the  relief  and 
contrast  which,  in  reality,  it  possessed,  even  though  we  are  at 
present  speaking  of  it  in  the  abstract. 

Having  now  reviewed  the  distinctive  parts  of  the  Italian 
cottage  in  detail,  we  shall  proceed  to  direct  our  attention  to 
points  of  general  character.  1.  Simplicity  of  form.  The 
roof,  being  flat,  allows  of  no  projecting  garret  windows,  no 
fantastic  gable  ends  :  the  walls  themselves  are  equally  flat ; 
no  bow-windows  or  sculptured  oriels,  such  as  we  meet  with 
perpetually  in  Germany,  France  or  the  Netherlands,  vary  their 
white  fronts.  Now,  this  simplicity  is,  perhaps,  the  principal 
attribute  by  which  the  Italian  cottage  attains  the  elevation  of 
character  we  desired  and  expected.  All  that  is  fantastic  in 
form,  or  frivolous  in  detail,  annihilates  the  aristocratic  air  of 
a  building  :  it  at  once  destroys  its  sublimity  and  size,  besides 
awakening,  as  is  almost  always  the  case,  associations  of  a  mean 
and  low  character.  The  moment  we  see  a  gable  roof,  we 
think  of  cocklofts  ;  the  instant  we  observe  a  projecting  win- 
dow, of  attics  and  tent-bedsteads.  Now  the  Italian  cottage 
assumes,  with  the  simplicity,  I'air  noble  of  buildings  of  a 
higher  order  ;  and,  though  it  avoids  all  ridiculous  miniature 
mimicry  of  the  palace,  it  discards  the  humbler  attributes  of 
the  cottage.  The  ornament  it  assumes  is  dignified  :  no  grin- 
ning faces,  or  unmeaning  notched  planks,  but  well-propor- 


THE   COTTAGE.  23 

tioned  arches,  or  tastefully  sculptured  columns.  While  there 
is  nothing  about  it  unsuited  to  the  humility  of  its  inhabitant, 
there  is  a  general  dignity  in  its  air,  which  harmonises  beau- 
tifully with  the  nobility  of  the  neighbouring  edifices,  or  the 
glory  of  the  surrounding  scenery. 

2.  Brightness  of  effect     There  are  no  weather  stains  on 
the  wall ;  there  is  no  dampness  in  air  or  earth,  by  which  they 
could  be  induced ;  the  heat  of  the  sun  scorches  away  all 
lichens,  and  mosses,  and  mouldy  vegetation.     No  thatch  or 
stone  crop  on  the  roof  unites  the  building  with  surrounding 
vegetation  ;  all  is  clear,  and  warm,  and  sharp  on  the  eye  ;  the 
more  distant  the  building,  the  more  generally  bright  it  be- 
comes,  till  the  distant  village   sparkles   out  of  the   orange 
copse,  or  the  cypress  grove,   with   so  much  distinctness  as 
might  be  thought  in  some  degree  objectionable.     But  it  must 
be  remembered  that  the  prevailing  colour  of  Italian  landscape 
is  blue  ;  sky,  hills,  water,  are  equally  azure  :  the  olive,  which 
forms  a  great  proportion  of  the  vegetation,  is  not  green,  but 
grey  ;  the  cypress,  and  its  varieties,  dark  and  neutral,  and  the 
laurel  and  myrtle  far  from  bright.     Now,  white,  which  is  in- 
tolerable with  green,  is  agreeable  contrasted  with  blue  ;  and 
to  this  cause  it  must  be  ascribed  that  the  white  of  the  Italian 
building  is  not  found  startling  or  disagreeable  in  the  land- 
scape.    That  it  is  not,  we  believe,  will  be  generally  allowed. 

3.  Elegance  of  feeling.     "We  never  can  prevent  ourselves 
from  imagining  that  we  perceive,  in  the  graceful  negligence 
of  the  Italian  cottage,  the  evidence  of  a  taste  among  the  lower 
orders  refined  by  the  glory  of  their  land,  and  the  beauty  of 
its  remains.     We  have  always  had  strong  faith  in  the  influence 
of  climate  on  the  mind,  and  feel  strongly  tempted  to  discuss 
the  subject  at  length ;  but  our  paper  has  already  exceeded 
its  proposed  limits,  and  we  must  content  ourselves  with  re- 
marking what  will  not,  we  think,  be  disputed,  that  the  eye, 
by  constantly  resting  either  on  natural  scenery  of  noble  tone 
and  character,  or  on  the   architectural  remains  of  classical 
beauty,  must  contract  a  habit  of  feeling  correctly  and  taste- 
fully ;  the  influence  of  which,  we  think,  is  seen  in  the  style  of 
edifices  the  most  modern  and  the  most  humble. 


24  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

Lastly,  Dilapidation.  We  have  just  used  the  term  "  grace- 
ful negligence  :  "  whether  it  be  graceful,  or  not,  is  a  matter 
of  taste  ;  but  the  uncomfortable  and  ruinous  disorder  and 
dilapidation  of  the  Italian  cottage  is  one  of  observation.  The 
splendour  of  the  climate  requires  nothing  more  than  shade 
from  the  sun,  and  occasionally  shelter  from  a  violent  storm  : 
the  outer  arcade  affords  them  both  :  it  becomes  the  nightly 
lounge  and  daily  dormitory  of  its  inhabitant,  and  the  interior 
is  abandoned  to  filth  and  decay.  Indolence  watches  the  tooth 
of  Time  with  careless  eye  and  nerveless  hand.  Religion,  or 
its  abuse,  reduces  every  individual  of  the  population  to  utter 
inactivity  three  days  out  of  the  seven  ;  and  the  habits  formed 
in  the  three  regulate  the  four.  Abject  poverty  takes  away 
the  power,  while  brutish  sloth  weakens  the  will ;  and  the 
filthy  habits  of  the  Italian  prevent  him  from  suffering  from 
the  state  to  which  he  is  reduced.  The  shattered  roofs,  the 
dark,  confused,  ragged  windows,  the  obscure  chambers,  the 
tattered  and  dirty  draperies,  altogether  present  a  picture 
which,  seen  too  near,  is  sometimes  revolting  to  the  eye,  al- 
ways melancholy  to  the  mind.  Yet  even  this  many  would 
not  wish  to  be  otherwise.  The  prosperity  of  nations,  as  of 
individuals,  is  cold,  and  hardhearted,  and  forgetful.  The  dead 
die,  indeed,  trampled  down  by  the  crowd  of  the  living  ;  the 
place  thereof  shall  know  them  no  more,  for  that  place  is  not 
in  the  hearts  of  the  survivors  for  whose  interest  they  have 
made  way.  But  adversity  and  ruin  point  to  the  sepulchre, 
and  it  is  not  trodden  on  ;  to  the  chronicle,  and  it  doth  not 
decay.  Who  would  substitute  the  rush  of  a  new  nation,  the 
struggle  of  an  awakening  power,  for  the  dreamy  sleep  of 
Italy's  desolation,  for  her  sweet  silence  of  melancholy  thought, 
her  twilight  time  of  everlasting  memories  ? 

Such,  we  think,  are  the  principal  distinctive  attributes  of 
the  Italian  cottage.  Let  it  not  be  thought  that  we  are  wast- 
ing time  in  the  contemplation  of  its  beauties ;  even  though 
they  are  of  a  kind  which  the  architect  can  never  imitate,  be- 
cause he  has  no  command  over  time,  and  no  choice  of  situa- 
tion ;  and  which  he  ought  not  to  imitate,  if  he  could,  because 
they  are  only  locally  desirable  or  admirabl<%  Our  object,  let 


THE    COTTAGE.  25 

it  always  be  remembered,  is  not  the  attainment  of  architect- 
ural data,  but  the  formation  of  taste. 
October  12,  1837. 


HI.  The  Mountain  Cottage. — Switzerland. 

IN  the  three  instances  of  the  lowland  cottage  which  hare 
been  already  considered,  are  included  the  chief  peculiarities 
of  style  which  are  interesting  or  important.  I  have  not,  it  is 
true,  spoken  of  the  carved  oaken  gable  and  shadowy  roof  of 
the  Norman  village  ;  of  the  black  crossed  rafters  and  fantas- 
tic projections  which  delight  the  eyes  of  the  German  ;  nor  of 
the  Moorish  arches  and  confused  galleries  which  mingle  so 
magnificently  with  the  inimitable  fretwork  of  the  grey  temples 
of  the  Spaniard.  But  these  are  not  peculiarities  solely  be- 
longing to  the  cottage :  they  are  found  in  buildings  of  a 
higher  order,  and  seldom,  unless  where  they  are  combined 
with  other  features.  They  are  therefore  rather  to  be  consid- 
ered, in  future,  as  elements  of  street  effect,  than,  now,  as  the 
peculiarities  of  independent  buildings.  My  remarks  on  the 
Italian  cottage  might,  indeed,  be  applied,  were  it  not  for  the 
constant  presence  of  Moorish  feeling,  to  that  of  Spain.  The 
architecture  of  the  two  nations  is  intimately  connected :  modi- 
fied, in  Italy,  by  the  taste  of  the  Roman  ;  and,  in  Spain,  by 
the  fanciful  creations  of  the  Moor.  When  I  am  considering 
the  fortress  and  the  palace,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  devote  a 
very  large  share  of  my  attention  to  Spain  ;  but,  for  character- 
istic examples  of  the  cottage,  I  turn  rather  to  Switzerland  and 
England.  Preparatory,  therefore,  to  a  few  general  remarks 
on  modern  ornamental  cottages,  it  will  be  instructive  to  ob- 
serve the  peculiarities  of  two  varieties  of  the  mountain  cot- 
tage, diametrically  opposite  to  each  other  in  most  of  their 
features  ;  one  always  beautiful,  and  the  other  frequently  so. 

First,  for  Helvetia.  Well  do  I  remember  the  thrilling  and 
exquisite  moment  when  first,  first  in  my  life  (which  had  not 
been  over  long),  I  encountered,  in  a  calm  and  shadowy  dingle, 
darkened  with  the  thick  spreading  of  tall  pines,  and  voiceful 


TEE  POETRY  OP  ARCHITECTURE. 


with  the  singing  of  a  rock-encumbered  stream,  and  passing 
up  towards  the  flank  of  a  smooth  green  mountain,  whose 
swarded  summit  shone  in  the  summer  snow  like  an  emerald 
set  in  silver  ;  when,  I  say,  I  first  encountered  in  this  calm 
defile  of  the  Jura,  the  unobtrusive,  yet  beautiful,  front  of  the 
Swiss  cottage.  I  thought  it  the  loveliest  piece  of  architecture 
I  had  ever  had  the  felicity  of  contemplating  ;  yet  it  was  noth- 
ing in  itself,  nothing  but  a  few  mossy  fir  trunks,  loosely  nailed 
together,  with  one  or  two  grey  stones  on  the  roof  :  but  its 
power  was  the  power  of  association ;  its  beauty,  that  of  fit- 
ness and  humility. 

How  different  is  this  from  what  modern  architects  erect, 
when  they  attempt  to  produce  what  is,  by  courtesy,  called 
a  Swiss  cottage.  The  modern  building 
known  in  Britain  by  that  name  has  very 
long  chimneys  (see  Fig.  2),  covered  with 
various  exceedingly  ingenious  devices  for 
the  convenient  reception  and  hospitable 
entertainment  of  soot,  supposed  by  the 
innocent  and  deluded  proprietor  to  be 
"  meant  for  ornament."  Its  gable  roof 
slopes  at  an  acute  angle,  and  terminates 
in  an  interesting  and  romantic  manner,  at 
each  extremity,  in  a  tooth-pick.  Its  walls 
are  very  precisely  and  prettily  plastered  ;  and  it  is  rendered 
quite  complete  by  the  addition  of  two  neat  little  bow-windows, 
supported  on  neat  little  mahogany  brackets,  full  of  neat  little 
squares  of  red  and  yellow  glass.  Its  door  is  approached  under 
a  neat  little  veranda,  "  uncommon  green,"  and  is  flanked  on 
each  side  by  a  neat  little  round  table,  with  all  its  legs  of  differ- 
ent lengths,  and  by  a  variety  of  neat  little  wooden  chairs,  all 
very  peculiarly  uncomfortable,  and  amazingly  full  of  earwigs  : 
the  whole  being  surrounded  by  a  garden  full  of  flints,  burnt 
bricks,  and  cinders,  with  some  water  in  the  middle,  and  a 
fountain  in  the  middle  of  it,  which  won't  play  ;  accompanied 
by  some  goldfish,  which  won't  swim ;  and  by  two  or  three 
ducks,  which  will  splash.  Now,  I  am  excessively  sorry  to  in- 
form the  members  of  any  respectable  English  family,  who  are 


FIG.  2. 


THE    COTTAGE.  27 

making  themselves  uncomfortable  in  one  of  these  ingenious 
conceptions,  under  the  idea  that  they  are  living  in  a  Swiss 
cottage,  that  they  labour  under  a  melancholy  deception  ;  and 
shall  now  proceed  to  investigate  the  peculiarities  of  the  real 
building. 

The  life  of  a  Swiss  peasant  is  divided  into  two  periods  ;  that 
in  which  he  is  watching  his  cattle  at  their  summer  pasture  on 
the  high  Alps,*  and  that  in  which  he  seeks  shelter  from  the 
violence  of  the  winter  storms  in  the  most  retired  parts  of  the 
low  valleys.  During  the  first  period,  he  requires  only  occa- 
sional shelter  from  storms  of  excessive  violence ;  during  the 
latter,  a  sufficient  protection  from  continued  inclement  weather. 
The  Alpine  or  summer  cottage,  therefore,  is  a  rude  log  hut, 
formed  of  unsquared  pine  trunks,  notched  » 

into  each  other  at  the  corners  (see  Fig.  3.). 
The  roof,  being  excessively  flat,  so  as  to  of- 
fer no  surface  to  the  wind,  is  covered  with 
fragments  of  any  stone  that  will  split  easily, 
held  on  by  crossing  logs ;  which  are,  in  their 
turn,  kept  down  by  masses  of  stone ;  the 
whole  being  generally  sheltered  behind  some  protecting  rock, 
or  resting  against  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  so  that,  from  one 
side,  you  may  step  upon  the  roof.  This  is  the  chalet.  When 
well  grouped,  running  along  a  slope  of  mountain  side,  these 
huts  produce  a  very  pleasing  effect,  being  never  obtrusive 
(owing  to  the  prevailing  greyness  of  their  tone),  uniting  well 
with  surrounding  objects,  and  bestowing  at  once  animation 
and  character. 

But  the  winter  residence,  the  Swiss  cottage,  properly  so 
called,  is  a  much  more  elaborate  piece  of  workmanship.  The 
principal  requisite  is,  of  course,  strength ;  and  this  is  always 
observable  in  the  large  size  of  the  timbers,  and  the  ingenious 
manner  in  which  they  are  joined,  so  as  to  support  and  relieve 
each  other,  when  any  of  them  are  severely  tried.  The  roof  is 
always  very  flat,  generally  meeting  at  an  angle  of  155°,  and 
projecting  from  5  ft  to  7  ft.  over  the  cottage  side,  in  order  to 

*  I  use  the  word  Alp  here,  and  in  future,  in  its  proper  sense,  of  a  high 
mountain  pasture ;  not  in  its  secondary  sense,  of  a  snowy  peak. 


THE  POETET   OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


prevent  the  windows  from  being  thoroughly  clogged  up  with 
snow.  That  this  projection  may  not  be  crushed  down  by  the 
enormous  weight  of  snow  which  it  must  sometimes  sustain,  it 
is  assisted  by  strong  wooden  supports  (seen  in  Figs.  4  and  5), 


FIG.  4. 

which  sometimes  extend  half  down  the  walls  for  the  sake  of 
strength,  divide  the  side  into  regular  compartments,  and  are 
rendered  ornamental  by  grotesque  carving.  Every  canton  has 
its  own  window.  That  of  Uri,  with  its  diamond  wood-work 
at  the  bottom,  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  richest.  (See  Fig.  5.) 


THE   COTTAGE.  29 

The  galleries  are  generally  rendered  ornamental  by  a  great 
deal  of  labour  bestowed  upon  their  wood-work.  This  is  best 
executed  in  the  canton  of  Berne.  The  door  is  always  6  or 
7  feet  from  the  ground,  and  occasionally  much  more,  that  it 
may  be  accessible  in  snow ;  and  it  is  reached  by  an  oblique 
gallery,  leading  up  to  a  horizontal  one,  as  shown  in  Fig.  4. 
The  base  of  the  cottage  is  formed  of  stone,  generally  white- 
washed. The  chimneys  must  have  a  chapter  to  themselves : 
they  are  splendid  examples  of  utility  combined  with  orna- 
ment. 

Such  are  the  chief  characteristics  of  the  Swiss  cottage, 
separately  considered.  I  must  now  take  notice  of  its  effect  in 
scenery. 

When  one  has  been  wandering  for  a  whole  morning  through 
a  valley  of  perfect  silence,  where  everything  around,  which 
is  motionless,  is  colossal,  and  everything  which  has  motion 
resistless  ;  where  the  strength  and  the  glory  of  nature  are 
principally  developed  in  the  very  forces  which  feed  upon  her 
majesty  ;  and  where,  in  the  midst  of  mightiness,  which  seems 
imperishable,  all  that  is  indeed  eternal  is  the  influence  of 
desolation ;  one  is  apt  to  be  surprised,  and  by  no  means 
agreeably,  to  find,  crouched  behind  some  projecting  rock,  a 
piece  of  architecture  which  is  neat  in  the  extreme,  though  in 
the  midst  of  wildness,  weak  in  the  midst  of  strength,  con- 
temptible in  the  midst  of  immensity.  There  is  something 
offensive  in  its  neatness  :  for  the  wood  is  almost  always  per- 
fectly clean,  and  looks  as  if  it  had  been  just  cut ;  it  is  conse- 
quently raw  in  its  colour,  and  destitute  of  all  variety  of  tone. 
This  is  especially  disagreeable  when  the  eye  has  been  pre- 
viously accustomed  to,  and  finds,  everywhere  around,  the 
exquisite  mingling  of  colour,  and  confused,  though  perpetu- 
ally graceful,  forms,  by  which  the  details  of  mountain  scenery 
are  peculiarly  distinguished.  Every  fragment  of  rock  is  fin- 
ished in  its  effect,  tinted  with  thousands  of  pale  lichens  and 
fresh  mosses  ;  every  pine  trunk  is  warm  with  the  life  of 
various  vegetation  ;  every  grassy  bank  glowing  with  mellowed 
colour,  and  waving  with  delicate  leafage.  How,  then,  can  the 
contrast  be  otherwise  than  painful,  between  this  perfect  love- 


30  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

liness,  and  the  dead,  raw,  lifeless  surface  of  the  deal  boards 
of  the  cottage.  Its  weakness  is  pitiable  ;  for  though  there  is 
always  evidence  of  considerable  strength  on  close  examination, 
there  is  no  effect  of  strength  :  the  real  thickness  of  the  logs 
is  concealed  by  the  cutting  and  carving  of  their  exposed  sur- 
faces ;  and  even  what  is  seen  is  felt  to  be  so  utterly  contemp- 
tible, when  opposed  to  the  destructive  forces  which  are  in 
operation  around,  that  the  feelings  are  irritated  at  the  im- 
agined audacity  of  the  inanimate  object,  with  the  self-conceit 
of  its  impotence  ;  and,  finally,  the  eye  is  offended  at  its  want 
of  size.  It  does  not,  as  might  be  at  first  supposed,  enhance 
the  sublimity  of  surrounding  scenery  by  its  littleness,  for  it 
provokes  no  comparison  ;  and  there  must  be  proportion  be- 
tween objects,  or  they  cannot  be  compared.  If  the  Parthenon, 
or  the  Pyramid  of  Cheops,  or  St.  Peter's,  were  placed  in  the 
same  situation,  the  mind  would  first  form  a  just  estimate  of 
the  magnificence  of  the  building,  and  then  be  trebly  impressed 
with  the  size  of  the  masses  which  overwhelmed  it.  The  ar- 
chitecture would  not  lose,  and  the  crags  would  gain,  by  the 
juxtaposition  ;  but  the  cottage,  which  must  be  felt  to  be  a 
thing  which  the  weakest  stream  of  the  Alps  could  toss  down 
before  it  like  a  foam  globe,  is  offensively  contemptible  ;  it  is 
like  a  child's  toy  let  fall  accidentally  on  the  hillside  ;  it  does 
not  unite  with  the  scene  ;  it  is  not  content  to  sink  into  a  quiet 
corner,  and  personify  humility  and  peace  ;  but  draws  atten- 
tion upon  itself  by  its  pretension  to  decoration,  while  its  deco- 
rations themselves  cannot  bear  examination,  because  they  are 
useless,  unmeaning,  and  incongruous. 

So  much  for  its  faults  ;  and  I  have  had  no  mercy  upon 
them,  the  rather,  because  I  am  always  afraid  of  being  biassed 
in  its  favour  by  my  excessive  love  for  its  sweet  nationality. 
Now  for  its  beauties.  Wherever  it  is  found,  it  always  sug- 
gests ideas  of  a  gentle,  pure,  and  pastoral  life.  One  feels  that 
the  peasants  whose  hands  carved  the  planks  so  neatly,  and 
adorned  their  cottage  so  industriously,  and  still  preserve  it  so 
perfectly,  and  so  neatly,  can  be  no  dull,  drunken,  lazy  boors  : 
one  feels,  also,  that  it  requires  both  firm  resolution,  and  de- 
termined industry,  to  maintain  so  successful  a  struggle  against 


THE   COTTAGE.  31 

"the  crush  of  thunder,  and  the  warring  winds."  Sweet  ideas 
float  over  the  imagination  of  such  passages  of  peasant  life  as 
the  gentle  Walton  so  loved ;  of  the  full  milkpail,  and  the 
mantling  cream-bowl ;  of  the  evening  dance,  and  the  matin 
song  ;  of  the  herdsmen  on  the  Alps,  of  the  maidens  by  the 
fountain  ;  of  all  that  is  peculiarly  and  indisputably  Swiss. 
For  the  cottage  is  beautifully  national ;  there  is  nothing  to  be 
found  the  least  like  it  in  any  other  country.  The  moment  a 
glimpse  is  caught  of  its  projecting  galleries,  one  knows  that 
it  is  the  land  of  Tell  and  Winkelried  ;  and  the  traveller,  feels 
that,  were  he  indeed  Swiss-born,  and  Alp-bred,  a  bit  of  that 
carved  plank,  meeting  his  eye  in  a  foreign  land,  would  be 
as  effectual  as  a  note  of  the  Eanz  des  Vaches  upon  the  ear. 
Again,  when  a  number  of  these  cottages  are  grouped  together, 
they  break  upon  each  other's  formality,  and  form  a  mass  of 
fantastic  projection,  of  carved  window  and  overhanging  roof, 
full  of  character,  and  picturesque  in  the  extreme  :  an  excellent 
example  of  this  is  the  Bernese  village  of  Unterseen.  Again, 
when  the  ornament  is  not  very  elaborate,  yet  enough  to  pre- 
serve the  character,  and  the  cottage  is  old,  and  not  very  well 
kept  (suppose  in  a  Catholic  canton),  and  a  little  rotten,  the 
effect  is  beautiful :  the  timber  becomes  weather-stained,  and 
of  a  fine  warm  brown,  harmonising  delightfully  with  the  grey 
stones  on  the  roof,  and  the  dark  green  of  surrounding  pines. 
If  it  be  fortunate  enough  to  be  situated  in  some  quiet  glen, 
out  of  sight  of  the  gigantic  features  of  the  scene,  and  sur- 
rounded with  cliffs  to  which  it  bears  some  proportion  ;  and  if 
it  be  partially  concealed,  not  intruding  on  the  eye,  but  well 
united  with  everything  around,  it  becomes  altogether  perfect ; 
humble,  beautiful,  and  interesting.  Perhaps  no  cottage  can 
then  be  found  to  equal  it ;  and  none  can  be  more  finished  in 
effect,  graceful  in  detail,  and  characteristic  as  a  whole. 

The  ornaments  employed  in  the  decoration  of  the  Swiss 
cottage  do  not  demand  much  attention  :  they  are  usually 
formed  in  a  most  simple  manner,  by  thin  laths,  which  are 
carved  into  any  fanciful  form,  or  in  which  rows  of  holes  are 
cut,  generally  diamond-shaped  ;  and  they  are  then  nailed  one 
above  another,  to  give  the  carving  depth.  Pinnacles  are  never 


32  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

raised  on  the  roof,  though  carved  spikes  are  occasionally  sus-. 
pended  from  it  at  the  angles.  No  ornamental  work  is  ever 
employed  to  disguise  the  beams  of  the  projecting  part  of  the 
roof,  nor  does  any  run  along  its  edges.  The  galleries,  in  the 


canton  of  Uri,  are  occasionally  supported  on  arched  beams,  as 
shown  in  Fig.  5,  which  have  a  very  pleasing  effect. 

Of  the  adaptation  of  the  building  to  climate  and  character, 
little  can  be  said.  When  I  called  it  "national,"  I  meant  only 
that  it  was  quite  sui  generis,  and,  therefore,  being  only  found 
in  Switzerland,  might  be  considered  as  a  national  building  ; 


THE   COTTAGE.  33 

though  it  has  none  of  the  mysterious  connexion  with  the  mind 
of  its  inhabitants  which  is  evident  in  all  really  fine  edifices. 
But  there  is  a  reason  for  this :  Switzerland  has  no  climate, 
properly  speaking,  but  an  assemblage  of  every  climate,  from 
Italy  to  the  pole  ;  the  vine  wild  in  its  valleys,  the  ice  eternal 
on  its  crags.  The  Swiss  themselves  are  what  we  might  have 
expected  of  persons  dwelling  in  such  a  climate  :  they  have  no 
character.  The  sluggish  nature  of  the  air  of  the  valleys  has  a 
malignant  operation  on  the  mind  ;  and  even  the  mountaineers, 
though  generally  shrewd  and  intellectual,  have  no  perceptible 
nationality :  they  have  no  language,  except  a  mixture  of  Italian 
and  bad  German  ;  they  have  no  peculiar  turn  of  mind  ;  they 
might  be  taken  as  easily  for  Germans  as  for  Swiss.  No  corre- 
spondence, consequently,  can  exist  between  national  architect- 
ure and  national  character,  where  the  latter  is  not  distinguish- 
able. Generally  speaking,  then,  the  Swiss  cottage  cannot  be 
said  to  be  built  in  good  taste  ;  but  it  is  occasionally  pictur- 
esque, frequently  pleasing,  and  under  a  favourable  concurrence 
of  circumstances,  beautiful.  It  is  not,  however,  a  thing  to  be 
imitated  :  it  is  always,  when  out  of  its  own  country,  incongru- 
ous ;  it  never  harmonises  with  anything  around  it,  and  can 
therefore  be  employed  only  in  mimicry  of  what  does  not  exist, 
not  in  improvement  of  what  does.  I  mean,  that  any  one  who 
has  on  his  estate  a  dingle  shaded  with  larches  or  pines,  with 
a  rapid  stream,  may  manufacture  a  bit  of  Switzerland  as  a  toy ; 
but  such  imitations  are  always  contemptible,  and  he  cannot 
use  the  Swiss  cottage  in  any  other  way.  A  modified  form  of 
it,  however,  as  will  be  hereafter  shown,  may  be  employed  with 
advantage.  I  hope,  in  my  next  paper,  to  derive  more  satis- 
faction from  the  contemplation  of  the  mountain  cottage  of 
Westmoreland,  than  I  have  been  able  to  obtain  from  that  of 
the  Swiss. 


IV.   The  Mountain  Cottage. — Westmoreland. 

WHEN  I  devoted  so  much  time  to  the  consideration  of  the 
peculiarities  of  the  Swiss  cottage,  I  did  not  previously  endeav- 
our to  ascertain  what  the  mind,  influenced  by  the  feelings 
3 


34:  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

excited  by  the  nature  of  its  situation,  would  be  induced  to 
expect,  or  disposed  to  admire.  I  thus  deviated  from  the  gen- 
eral rule  which  I  hope  to  be  able  to  follow  out ;  but  I  did  so 
only  because  the  subject  of  consideration  was  incapable  of 
fulfilling  the  expectation  when  excited,  or  corresponding  with 
the  conception  when  formed.  But  now,  in  order  to  appreci- 
ate the  beauty  of  the  Westmoreland  cottage,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  fix  upon  a  standard  of  excellence,  with  which  it  may 
be  compared. 

One  of  the  principal  charms  of  mountain  scenery  is  its  soli- 
tude. Now,  just  as  silence  is  never  perfect  or  deep  without 
motion,  solitude  is  never  perfect  without  some  vestige  of 
life.  Even  desolation  is  not  felt  to  be  utter,  unless  in  some 
slight  degree  interrupted :  unless  the  cricket  is  chirping  on 
the  lonely  hearth,  or  the  vulture  soaring  over  the  field  of 
corpses,  or  the  one  mourner  lamenting  over  the  red  ruins  of 
the  devasted  village,  that  devastation  is  not  felt  to  be  com- 
plete. The  anathema  of  the  prophet  does  not  wholly  leave 
the  curse  of  loneliness  upon  the  mighty  city,  until  he  tells  us 
that  "  the  satyr  shall  dance  there."  And,  if  desolation,  which 
is  the  destruction  of  life,  cannot  leave  its  impression  perfect 
without  some  interruption,  much  less  can  solitude,  which  is 
only  the  absence  of  life,  be  felt  without  some  contrast.  Ac- 
cordingly, it  is,  perhaps,  never  so  perfect  as  when  a  populous 
and  highly  cultivated  plain,  immediately  beneath,  is  visible 
through  the  rugged  ravines,  or  over  the  cloudy  summits  of 
some  tall,  vast,  and  voiceless  mountain.  When  such  a  pros- 
pect is  not  attainable,  one  of  the  chief  uses  of  the  mountain 
cottage,  paradoxical  as  the  idea  may  appear,  is  to  increase  this 
sense  of  solitude.  Now,  as  it  will  only  do  so  when  it  is  seen 
at  a  considerable  distance,  it  is  necessary  that  it  should  be 
visible,  or,  at  least,  that  its  presence  should  be  indicated,  over 
a  considerable  portion  of  surrounding  space.  It  must  not, 
therefore,  be  too  much  shaded  with  trees,  or  it  will  be  useless  ; 
but  if,  on  the  contrary,  it  be  too  conspicuous  on  the  open  hill 
side,  it  will  be  liable  to  most  of  the  objections  which  were  ad- 
vanced against  the  Swiss  cottage,  and  to  another,  which  was 
not  then  noticed.  Anything  which,  to  the  eye,  is  split  into 


THE   COTTAGE.  35 

parts,  appears  less  as  a  whole  than  what  is  undivided.  Now, 
a  considerable  mass,  of  whatever  tone  or  colour  it  may  con- 
sist, is  as  easily  divisible  by  dots  as  by  lines  ;  that  is,  a  con- 
spicuous point,  on  any  part  of  its  surface,  will  divide  it  into 
two  portions,  each  of  which  will  be  individually  measured  by 
the  eye,  but  which  will  never  make  the  impression  which  they 
would  have  made  had  their  unity  not  been  interrupted.  A 
conspicuous  cottage  on  a  distant  mountain  side  has  this  effect 
in  a  fatal  degree,  and  is,  therefore,  always  intolerable.  It 
should  accordingly,  in  order  to  reconcile  the  attainment  of 
the  good,  with  the  avoidance  of  the  evil,  be  barely  visible  :  it 
should  not  tell  as  a  cottage  on  the  eye,  though  it  should  on 
the  mind  ;  for  be  it  observed  that  if  it  is  only  by  the  closest 
investigation  that  we  can  ascertain  it  to  be  a  human  habita- 
tion, it  will  answer  the  purpose  of  increasing  the  solitude 
quite  as  well  as  if  it  were  evidently  so  ;  because  this  impres- 
sion is  produced  by  its  appeal  to  the  thoughts,  not  by  its  effect 
on  the  eye.  Its  colour,  therefore,  should  be  as  nearly  as  pos- 
sible that  of  the  hill  on  which,  or  the  crag  beneath  which,  it 
is  placed :  its  form,  one  that  will  incorporate  well  with  the 
ground,  and  approach  that  of  a  large  stone  more  than  of  any- 
thing else.  The  colour  will  consequently,  if  this  rule  be  fol- 
lowed, be  subdued  and  greyish,  but  rather  warm ;  and  the 
form  simple,  graceful,  and  unpretending.  The  building  should 
retain  the  same  general  character  on  a  closer  examination. 
Everything  about  it  should  be  natural,  and  should  appear  as 
if  the  influences  and  forces  which  were  in  operation  around 
it  had  been  too  strong  to  be  resisted,  and  had  rendered  all 
efforts  of  art  to  check  their  power,  or  conceal  the  evidence  of 
their  action,  entirely  unavailing.  It  cannot  but  be  an  alien 
child  of  the  mountains ;  but  it  must  show  that  it  has  been 
adopted  and  cherished  by  them.  This  effect  is  only  attainable 
by  great  ease  of  outline  and  variety  of  colour ;  peculiarities 
which,  as  will  be  presently  seen,  the  Westmoreland  cottage 
possesses  in  a  supereminent  degree. 

Another  feeling,  with  which  one  is  impressed  during  a 
mountain  ramble,  is  humility.  I  found  fault  with  the  insig- 
nificance of  the  Swiss  cottage,  because  "  it  was  not  content  to 


36  THE  POETRY   OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

sink  into  a  quiet  corner,  and  personify  humility."  Now,  had 
it  not  been  seen  to  be  pretending,  it  would  not  have  been  felt 
to  be  insignificant ;  for  the  feelings  would  have  been  gratified 
with  its  submission  to,  and  retirement  from,  the  majesty  of 
the  destructive  influences  which  it  rather  seemed  to  rise  up 
against  in  mockery.  Such  pretension  is  especially  to  be 
avoided  in  the  mountain  cottage  :  it  can  never  lie  too  humbly 
in  the  pastures  of  the  valley,  nor  shrink  too  submissively  into 
the  hollows  of  the  hills  ;  it  should  seem  to  be  asking  the  storm 
for  mercy,  and  the  mountain  for  protection  ;  and  should  ap- 
pear to  owe  to  its  weakness,  rather  than  to  its  strength,  that  it 
is  neither  overwhelmed  by  the  one,  nor  crushed  by  the  other. 
Such  are  the  chief  attributes,  without  which  a  mountain 
cottage  cannot  be  said  to  be  beautiful.  It  may  possess  others, 
which  are  desirable  or  objectionable,  according  to  their  situa- 
tion, or  other  accidental  circumstances.  The  nature  of  these 
will  be  best  understood  by  examining  an  individual  building. 
The  material  is,  of  course,  what  is  most  easily  attainable  and 
available  without  much  labour.  The  Cumberland  and  West- 
moreland hills  are,  in  general,  composed  of  clay-slate  and  grey, 
wacke,  with  occasional  masses  of  chert  (like  that  which  forms 
the  summit  of  Scawfell),  porphyritic  greenstone,  and  syenite. 
The  chert  decomposes  deeply,  and  assumes  a  rough,  brown, 
granular  surface,  deeply  worn  and  furrowed.  The  clay-slate 
and  greywacke,  as  it  is  shattered  by  frost,  and  carried  down 
by  the  torrents,  of  course  forms  itself  into  irregular  flattish 
masses.  The  splintery  edges  of  these  are  in  some  degree 
worn  off  by  the  action  of  water  ;  and,  slight  decomposition 
taking  place  on  the  surface  of  the  clay-slate  furnishes  an  al- 
uminous soil,  which  is  immediately  taken  advantage  of  by  in- 
numerable lichens,  which  change  the  dark  grey  of  the  original 
substance  into  an  infinite  variety  of  pale  and  warm  colours. 
These  stones,  thus  shaped  to  his  hand,  are  the  most  convenient 
building  materials  the  peasant  can  obtain.  He  lays  his  foun- 
dation and  strengthens  his  angles  with  large  masses,  filling  up 
the  intervals  with  pieces  of  a  more  moderate  size  ;  and  using 
here  and  there  a  little  cement  to  bind  the  whole  together,  and 
to  keep  the  wind  from  getting  through  the  interstices ;  but 


TEE    COTTAGE. 


never  enough  to  fill  them  altogether  up,  or  to  render  the  face 
of  the  wall  smooth.  At  intervals  of  from  4  ft.  to  6  ft.  a  hori- 
zontal line  of  flat  and  broad  fragments  is  introduced  project- 
ing about  a  foot  from  the  wall.  Whether  this  is  supposed  to 
give  strength,  I  know  not ;  but,  as  it  is  invariably  covered  by 
luxuriant  stonecrop,  it  is  always  a  delightful  object. 

The  door  is  flanked  and  roofed  by  three  large  oblong  sheets 
of  grey  rock,  whose  form  seems  not  to  be  considered  of  the 
slightest  consequence.  Those  which  form  the  cheeks  of  the 
window  (Fig.  6),  are  generally  selected  with  more  care  from 
the  debris  of  some  rock,  which  is  naturally  smooth  and  pol- 
ished, after  being  subjected  to  the  weather,  such  as  granite  or 
syenite.  The  window  itself  is  narrow  and  deep  set :  in  the 
better  sort  of  cottages,  lat- 
ticed, but  with  no  affecta- 
tion of  sweetbriar  or  eglan- 
tine about  it.  It  may  be 
observed  of  the  whole  of 
the  cottage,  that,  though  all 
is  beautiful,  nothing  is 
pretty.  The  roof  is  rather 
flat,  and  covered  with  heavy 
fragments  of  the  stone  of 
which  the  walls  are  built, 
originally  very  loose  ;  but  generally  cemented  by  accumulated 
soil,  and  bound  together  by  houseleek,  moss,  and  stonecrop  : 
brilliant  in  colour,  and  singular  in  abundance.  The  form  of 
the  larger  cottages,  being  frequently  that  of  a  cross,  would  hurt 
the  eye  by  the  sharp  angles  of  the  roof,  were  it  not  for  the 
cushion-like  vegetation  with  which  they  are  rounded  and  con- 
cealed. Varieties  of  the  fern  sometimes  relieve  the  massy 
forms  of  the  stonecrop,  with  their  light  and  delicate  leafage. 
"Windows  in  the  roof  are  seldom  met  with.  Of  the  chimney 
I  shall  speak  hereafter. 

Such  are  the  prevailing  peculiarities  of  the  Westmoreland 
cottage.  "  Is  this  all  ?  "  some  one  will  exclaim  :  "  a  hovel, 
built  of  what  first  comes  to  hand,  and  in  the  most  simple  and 
convenient  form  ;  not  one  thought  of  architectural  beauty  ever 


PIG.  6. 


38  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

coming  into  the  builder's  head  !  "  Even  so,  to  this  illustration 
of  an  excellent  rule,  I  wish  particularly  to  direct  attention  ; 
that  the  material  which  Nature  furnishes,  in  any  given  country, 
and  the  form  which  she  suggests,  will  always  render  the  build- 
ing the  most  beautiful,  because  the  most  appropriate.  Ob- 
serve how  perfectly  this  cottage  fulfils  the  conditions  which 
were  before  ascertained  to  be  necessary  to  perfection.  Its 
colour  is  that  of  the  ground  on  which  it  stands,  always  sub- 
dued and  grey,  but  exquisitely  rich,  the  colour  being  dis- 
posed crumblingly,  in  groups  of  shadowy  spots  ;  a  deep  red 
brown,  passing  into  black,  being  finely  contrasted  with  the 
pale  yellow  of  the  Lichen  geographicus,  and  the  subdued  white 
of  another  lichen,  whose  name  I  do  not  know ;  all  mingling 
with  each  other  as  on  a  native  rock,  and  with  the  same  beauti- 
ful effect :  the  mass,  consequently,  at  a  distance,  tells  only  as  a 
large  stone  would,  the  simplicity  of  its  form  contributing  still 
farther  to  render  it  inconspicuous.  When  placed  on  a  moun- 
tain side,  such  a  cottage  will  become  a  point  of  interest,  which 
will  relieve  its  monotony,  but  will  never  cut  the  hill  in  two,  or 
take  away  from  its  size.  In  the  valley,  the  colour  of  these 
cottages  agrees  with  everything  :  the  green  light  which  trem- 
bles through  the  leafage  of  the  taller  trees,  falls  with  exquisite 
effect  on  the  rich  grey  of  the  ancient  roofs  ;  the  deep  pool  of 
clear  water  is  not  startled  from  its  peace  by  their  reflection  ; 
the  ivy  or  the  creepers,  to  which  the  superior  wealth  of  the 
peasant  of  the  valley  does  now  and  then  pretend,  in  opposi- 
tion to  the  general  custom,  cling  gracefully  and  easily  to  its 
innumerable  crevices ;  and  rock,  lake,  and  meadow  seem  to 
hail  it  with  a  brotherly  affection,  as  if  Nature  had  taken  as 
much  pains  with  it  as  she  has  with  them. 

Again,  observe  its  ease  of  outline.  There  is  not  a  single 
straight  line  to  be  met  with  from  foundation  to  roof,  all  is 
bending  or  broken.  The  form  of  every  stone  in  its  walls  is  a 
study  ;  for,  owing  to  the  infinite  delicacy  of  structure  in  all 
minerals,  a  piece  of  stone  3  in.  in  diameter,  irregularly  fract- 
ured, and  a  little  worn  by  the  weather,  has  precisely  the  same 
character  of  outline  which  we  should  find  and  admire  in  a 
mountain  of  the  same  material  6,000  ft.  high  ;  and,  therefore, 


THE   COTTAGE.  39 

the  eye,  though  not  feeling  the  cause,  rests  on  every  cranny, 
and  crack,  and  fissure  with  delight.  It  is  true  that  we  have 
no  idea  that  every  small  projection,  if  of  chert,  has  such  an 
outline  as  ScawfelTs  ;  if  of  greywacke,  as  Skidaw's  ;  or  if  of 
slate,  as  Helvellyn's ;  but  their  combinations  of  form  are, 
nevertheless,  felt  to  be  exquisite,  and  we  dwell  upon  every 
bend  of  the  rough  roof,  and  every  hollow  of  the  loose  wall, 
feeling  it  to  be  a  design  which  no  architect  on  earth  could  ever 
equal,  sculptured  by  a  chisel  of  unimaginable  delicacy,  and 
finished  to  a  degree  of  perfection,  which  is  unnoticed  only 
because  it  is  everywhere. 

This  ease  and  iiTegularity  is  peculiarly  delightful ;  here, 
gracefulness  and  freedom  of  outline  and  detail  are,  as  they 
always  are  in  mountain  countries,  the  chief  characteristics  of 
every  scene.  It  is  well  that,  where  every  plant  is  wild  and 
every  torrent  free,  every  field  irregular  in  its  form,  every  knoll 
various  in  its  outline,  one  is  not  startled  by  well-built  walls,  or 
unyielding  roofs,  but  is  permitted  to  trace  in  the  stones  of  the 
peasant's  dwelling,  as  in  the  crags  of  the  mountain  side,  no 
evidence  of  the  line  or  the  mallet,  but  the  operation  of  eternal 
influences,  the  presence  of  an  Almighty  hand.  Another  per- 
fection connected  with  its  ease  of  outline  is,  its  severity  of 
character :  there  is  no  foppery  about  it ;  not  the  slightest 
effort  at  any  kind  of  ornament,  but  what  nature  chooses  to 
bestow  ;  it  wears  all  its  decorations  wildly,  covering  its  naked- 
ness, not  with  what  the  peasant  may  plant,  but  with  what  the 
winds  may  bring.  There  is  no  gay  colour  or  neatness  about 
it ;  no  green  shutters  or  other  abomination :  all  is  calm  and 
quiet,  and  severe,  as  the  mind  of  a  philosopher,  and,  withal,  a 
little  sombre.  It  is  evidently  old,  and  has  stood  many  trials 
in  its  day  ;  and  the  snow,  and  the  tempest,  and  the  torrent, 
have  all  spared  it,  and  left  it  in  its  peace,  with  its  grey  head 
unbowed,  and  its  early  strength  unbroken,  even  though  the 
spirit  of  decay  seems  creeping,  like  the  moss  and  the  lichen, 
through  the  darkness  of  its  crannies.  This  venerable  and 
slightly  melancholy  character  is  the  very  soul  of  all  its  beauty. 

There  remains  only  one  point  to  be  noticed,  its  humility. 
This  was  before  stated  to  be  desirable,  and  it  will  here  be 


40  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

found  in  perfection.  The  building  draws  as  little  attention 
upon  itself  as  possible  ;  since,  with  all  the  praise  I  have  be- 
stowed upon  it,  it  possesses  not  one  point  of  beauty  in  which 
it  is  not  equalled  or  excelled  by  every  stone  at  the  side  of  the 
road.  It  is  small  in  size,  simple  in  form,  subdued  in  tone, 
easily  concealed  or  overshadowed  ;  often  actually  so  ;  and  one 
is  always  delighted  and  surprised  to  find  that  what  courts 
attention  so  little  is  capable  of  sustaining  it  so  well.  Yet  it 
has  no  appearance  of  weakness  :  it  is  stoutly,  though  rudely, 
built ;  and  one  ceases  to  fear  for  its  sake  the  violence  of  sur- 
rounding which,  it  may  be  seen,  will  be  partly  resisted  by  its 
strength,  and  which  we  feel  will  be  partly  deprecated  by  its 
humility.  Such  is  the  mountain  cottage  of  Westmoreland ; 
and  such,  with  occasional  varieties,  are  many  of  the  mountain 
cottages  of  England  and  Wales.  It  is  true  that  my  memory 
rests  with  peculiar  pleasure  in  a  certain  quiet  valley  near 
Kirkstone,  little  known  to  the  general  tourist,  distant  from 
any  public  track,  and,  therefore,  free  from  all  the  horrors  of 
improvement ;  in  which  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  architecture 
of  the  cottage  had  attained  a  peculiar  degree  of  perfection- 
But  I  think  that  this  impression  was  rather  produced  by  a 
few  seemingly  insignificant  accompanying  circumstances,  than 
by  any  distinguished  beauty  of  design  in  the  cottages  them- 
selves. Their  inhabitants  were  evidently  poor,  and  apparently 
had  not  repaired  their  dwellings  since  their  first  erection ; 
and  certainly,  had  never  torn  one  tuft  of  moss  or  fern  from 
roofs  or  walls  which  were  green  with  the  rich  vegetation  of 
years.  The  valley  was  narrow,  and  quiet,  and  deep,  and 
shaded  by  reverend  trees,  among  whose  trunks  the  grey  cot- 
tages looked  out,  with  a  perfection  of  effect  which  I  never 
remember  to  have  seen  equalled,  though  I  believe  that,  in 
many  of  the  mountain  districts  of  Britain,  the  peasant's  domi- 
cile is  erected  with  equal  good  taste.  I  have  always  rejoiced 
in  the  thought,  that  our  native  highland  scenery,  though, 
perhaps,  wanting  in  sublimity,  is  distinguished  by  a  delicate 
finish  in  its  details,  and  by  a  unanimity  and  propriety  of  feel- 
ing in  the  works  of  its  inhabitants,  which  are  elsewhere  looked 
for  in  vain  :  and  the  reason  of  this  is  evident.  The  mind  of 


THE    COTTAGE.  41 

the  inhabitant  of  the  continent,  in  general,  is  capable  of 
deeper  and  finer  sensations  than  that  of  the  islander.  It  is 
higher  in  its  aspirations,  purer  in  its  passions,  wilder  in  its 
dreams,  and  fiercer  in  its  anger  ;  but  it  is  wanting  in  gentle- 
ness, and  in  its  simplicity  ;  naturally  desirous  of  excitement, 
and  incapable  of  experiencing,  in  equal  degree,  the  calmer 
flow  of  human  felicity,  the  stillness  of  domestic  peace,  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  humble  hearth,  consisting  in  every-day  duties 
performed,  and  every-day  mercies  received  ;  consequently,  in 
the  higher  walks  of  architecture,  where  the  mind  is  to  be  im- 
pressed or  elevated,  we  never  have  equalled,  and  we  never 
shall  equal,  them.  It  will  be  seen  hereafter,  when  we  leave 
the  lowly  valley  for  the  torn  ravine,  and  the  grassy  knoll  for 
the  ribbed  precipice,  that,  if  the  continental  architects  cannot 
adorn  the  pasture  with  the  humble  roof,  they  can  crest  the 
crag  with  eternal  battlements  ;  if  they  cannot  minister  to  a 
landscape's  peace,  they  can  add  to  its  terror  ;  and  it  has  been 
already  seen,  that,  in  the  lowland  cottages  of  France  and 
Italy,  where  high  and  refined  feelings  were  to  be  induced, 
where  melancholy  was  to  be  excited,  or  majesty  bestowed,  the 
architect  was  successful,  and  his  labor  was  perfect :  but  now, 
nothing  is  required  but  humility  and  gentleness ;  and  this, 
which  he  does  not  feel,  he  cannot  give  :  it  is  contrary  to  the 
whole  force  of  his  character,  nay,  even  to  the  spirit  of  his 
religion.  It  is  unfelt  even  at  the  time  when  the  soul  is  most 
chastened  and  subdued ;  for  the  epitaph  on  the  grave  is  af- 
fected in  its  sentiment,  and  the  tombstone  gaudily  gilded,  or 
wreathed  with  vain  flowers.  "We  cannot,  then,  be  surprised  at 
the  effort  at  ornament  and  other  fancied  architectural  beauties, 
which  injure  the  effect  of  the  more  peaceful  mountain  scenery 
abroad  ;  but  still  less  should  we  be  surprised  at  the  perfect 
propriety  which  prevails  in  the  same  kind  of  scenery  at  home  ; 
for  the  error  which  is  there  induced  by  one  mental  deficiency, 
is  here  prevented  by  another.  The  uncultivated  mountaineer 
of  Cumberland  has  no  taste,  and  no  idea  of  what  architecture 
means  :  he  never  thinks  of  what  is  right,  or  what  is  beautiful, 
but  he  builds  what  is  most  adapted  to  his  purposes,  and  most 
easily  erected  :  by  suiting  the  building  to  the  uses  of  his  own 


42  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

life,  he  gives  it  humility  ;  and,  by  raising  it  with  the  nearest 
material,  adapts  it  to  its  situation.  This  is  all  that  is  re- 
quired, and  he  has  no  credit  in  fulfilling  the  requirement, 
since  the  moment  he  begins  to  think  of  effect,  he  commits  a 
barbarism  by  whitewashing  the  whole.  The  cottages  of  Cum- 
berland would  suffer  much  by  this  piece  of  improvement,  were 
it  not  for  the  salutary  operation  of  mountain  rains  and  moun- 
tain winds. 

So  much  for  the  hill  dwellings  of  our  own  country.  I  think 
the  examination  of  the  five  examples  of  the  cottage  which  I 
have  given  have  furnished  all  the  general  principles  which  are 
important  or  worthy  of  consideration  ;  and  I  shall  therefore 
devote  no  more  time  to  the  contemplation  of  individual  build- 
ings. But,  before  I  leave  the  cottage  altogether,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  notice  a  part  of  the  building  which  I  have  in  the 
separate  instances  purposely  avoided  mentioning,  that  I  might 
have  the  advantage  of  immediate  comparison  ;  a  part  exceed- 
ingly important,  and  which  seems  to  have  been  essential  to 
the  palace  as  well  as  to  the  cottage,  ever  since  the  time  when 
Perdiccas  received  his  significant  gift  of  the  sun  from  his 
Macedonian  master,  Trepiypctyas  TOV  ^Aiov,  os  rjv  Kara  TTJV  KdTrvoSoKTp 
es  TOV  OIKOV  eo-ex^v ;  and  then  I  shall  conclude  the  subject  by  a 
few  general  remarks  on  modern  ornamental  cottages,  illus- 
trative of  the  principle  so  admirably  developed  in  the  beauty 
of  the  Westmoreland  building,  to  which,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, the  palm  was  assigned,  in  preference  to  the  Switzer's  ; 
not  because  it  was  more  laboured,  but  because  it  was  more 
natural. 

Oxford,  Jan.  1838. 

V.  A  Chapter  on  Chimneys. 

IT  appears  from  the  passage  in  Herodotus,  which  we  al- 
luded to  in  the  last  paper,  that  there  has  been  a  time  even  in 
the  most  civilised  countries,  when  the  king's  palace  was  en- 
tirely unfurnished  with  anything  having  the  slightest  preten- 
sion to  the  dignity  of  chimney  tops  :  and  the  savoury  vapors 
which  were  wont  to  arise  from  the  hospitable  hearth,  at  which 


TEE   COTTAGE.  43 

the  queen  or  princess  prepared  the  feast  with  the  whitest  of 
hands,  escaped  with  indecorous  facility  through  a  simple  hole 
in  the  flat  roof.  The  dignity  of  smoke,  however,  is  now  bet- 
ter understood,  and  it  is  dismissed  through  Gothic  pinnacles, 
and  (as  at  Burleigh  House)  through  Tuscan  columns,  with  a 
most  praiseworthy  regard  to  its  comfort  and  convenience. 
Let  us  consider  if  it  is  worth  the  trouble.  We  advanced  a 
position  in  the  last  paper,  that  silence  is  never  perfect  with- 
out motion,  that  is,  unless  something  which  might  possibly 
produce  sound,  is  evident  to  the  eye  :  the  absence  of  sound  is 
not  surprising  to  the  ear,  and,  therefore,  not  impressive.  Let 
it  be  observed,  for  instance,  how  much  the  stillness  of  a  sum- 
mer's evening  is  enhanced  by  the  perception  of  the  gliding 
and  majestic  motion  of  some  calm  river,  strong  but  still ;  or 
of  the  high  and  purple  clouds ;  or  of  the  voiceless  leaves, 
among  the  opening  branches  :  to  produce  this  impression, 
however,  the  motion  must  be  uniform,  though  not  necessarily 
slow.  One  of  the  chief  peculiarities  of  the  ocean  thorough- 
fares of  Venice,  is  the  remarkable  silence  which  rests  upon 
them,  enhanced,  as  it  is,  by  the  swift,  but  beautifully  uniform 
motion  of  the  gondola.  Now,  there  is  no  motion  more  uni- 
form, silent,  or  beautiful,  than  that  of  smoke  ;  and,  therefore, 
when  we  wish  the  peace  or  stillness  of  a  scene  to  be  impres- 
sive, it  is  highly  useful  to  draw  the  attention  to  it. 

In  the  cottage,  therefore,  a  building  peculiarly  adapted  for 
scenes  of  peace,  the  chimney,  as  conducting  the  eye  to  what 
is  agreeble,  may  be  considered  an  important,  and,  if  well 
managed,  a  beautiful  accompaniment.  But  in  buildings  of  a 
higher  class,  smoke  ceases  to  be  interesting.  Owing  to  their 
general  greater  elevation,  it  is  relieved  against  the  sky,  instead 
of  against  a  dark  back-ground,  thereby  losing  the  fine  silvery 
blue  which,  among  trees,  or  rising  out  of  distant  country,  is 
so  exquisitely  beautiful,  and  assuming  a  dingy  yellowish 
black :  its  motion  becomes  useless  ;  for  the  idea  of  stillness  is 
no  longer  desirable,  or,  at  least,  no  longer  attainable,  being 
interrupted  by  the  nature  of  the  building  itself :  and,  finally, 
the  associations  it  arouses  are  not  dignified ;  we  may  think 
of  a  comfortable  fireside,  perhaps,  but  are  quite  as  likely  to 


44  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

dream  of  kitchens,  and  spits,  and  shoulders  of  mutton. 
None  of  these  imaginations  are  in  their  place,  if  the  character 
of  the  building  be  elevated ;  they  are  barely  tolerable  in  the 
dwelling-house  and  the  street.  Now,  when  smoke  is  objec- 
tionable, it  is  certainly  improper  to  direct  attention  to  the 
chimney ;  and,  therefore,  for  two  weighty  reasons,  decorated 
chimneys,  of  any  sort  or  size  whatsoever,  are  inexcusable  bar- 
barisms ;  first,  because,  where  smoke  is  beautiful,  decoration 
is  unsuited  to  the  building  ;  and,  secondly,  because,  where 
smoke  is  ugly,  decoration  directs  attention  to  its  ugliness.  It 
is  unfortunately  a  prevailing  idea  with  some  of  our  architects, 
that  what  is  a  disagreeable  object  in  itself  may  be  relieved  or 
concealed  by  lavish  ornament ;  and  there  never  was  a  greater 
mistake.  It  should  be  a  general  principle,  that  what  is  in- 
trinsically ugly  should  be  utterly  destitute  of  ornament,  that 
the  eye  may  not  be  drawn  to  it.  The  pretended  skulls  of  the 
three  Magi  at  Cologne  are  set  in  gold,  and  have  a  diamond  in 
each  eye  ;  and  are  a  thousand  times  more  ghastly  than  if  their 
brown  bones  had  been  left  in  peace.  Such  an  error  as  this 
ought  never  to  be  committed  in  architecture.  If  any  part  of 
the  building  has  disagreeable  associations  connected  with  it, 
let  it  alone  :  do  not  ornament  it ;  keep  it  subdued,  and  simply 
adapted  to  its  use  ;  and  the  eye  will  not  go  to  it,  nor  quarrel 
with  it.  It  would  have  been  well  if  this  principle  had  been 
kept  in  view  in  the  renewal  of  some  of  the  public  buildings  in 
Oxford.  In  All  Souls  College,  for  instance,  the  architect  has 
carried  his  chimneys  half  as  high  as  all  the  rest  of  the  build- 
ing, and  fretted  them  with  Gothic.  The  eye  is  instantly 
caught  by  the  plated-candlestick-like  columns,  and  runs  with 
some  complacency  up  the  groining  and  fret- work,  and  alights 
finally  and  fatally  on  a  red  chimney  top.  He  might  as  well 
have  built  a  Gothic  aisle  at  an  entrance  to  a  coal  wharf.  We 
have  no  scruple  in  saying  that  the  man  who  could  desecrate 
the  Gothic  trefoil  into  an  ornament  for  a  chimney  has  not  the 
slightest  feeling,  and  never  will  have  any,  of  its  beauty  or  its 
use  ;  he  was  never  born  to  be  an  architect,  and  never  will  be 
one. 

Now,  if  chimneys  are  not  to  be  decorated  (since  their  exist- 


THE    COTTAGE.  45 

ence  is  necessary),  it  becomes  an  object  of  some  importance 
to  know  what  is  to  be  done  with  them :  and  we  enter  into 
the  enquiry  before  leaving  the  cottage,  as  in  its  most  proper 
place ;  because,  in  the  cottage,  and  only  in  the  cottage,  it  is 
desirable  to  direct  attention  to  smoke. 

Speculation,  however,  on  the  beau-ideal  of  a  chimney  can 
never  be  unshackled  ;  because,  though  we  may  imagine  what 
it  ought  to  be,  we  can  never  tell,  until  the  house  is  built,  what 
it  must  be ;  we  may  require  it  to  be  short,  and  find  that  it  win 
smoke,  unless  it  is  long  ;  or  we  may  desire  it  to  be  covered, 
and  find  it  will  not  go  unless  it  is  open.  "We  can  fix,  there- 
fore, on  no  one  model ;  but  by  looking  over  the  chimneys  of 
a  few  nations,  we  may  deduce  some  general  principles  from 
their  varieties,  which  may  always  be  brought  into  play,  by 
whatever  circumstances  our  own  imaginations  may  be  con- 
fined. 

Looking  first  to  the  mind  of  the  people,  we  cannot  expect 
to  find  good  examples  of  the  chimney,  as  we  go  to  the  south. 
The  Italian  or  the  Spaniard  does  not  know  the  use  of  a  chim- 
ney :  properly  speaking,  they  have  such  things,  and  they  light 
a  fire,  five  days  in  the  year,  chiefly  of  wood,  which  does  not 
give  smoke  enough  to  teach  the  chimney  its  business  ;  but 
they  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  the  meaning  or  the  beauty 
of  such  things  as  hobs,  and  hearths,  and  Christmas  blazes ; 
and  we  should,  therefore,  expect,  d  priori,  that  there  would 
be  no  soul  in  their  chimneys  ;  that  they  would  have  no  prac- 
tised substantial  air  about  them  ;  that  they  would,  in  short, 
be  as  awkward  and  as  much  in  the  way,  as  individuals  of  the 
human  race  are,  when  they  don't  know  what  to  do  with  them- 
selves, or  what  they  were  created  for.  But  in  England,  sweet 
carbonaceous  England,  we  flatter  ourselves  we  do  know  some- 
thing about  fire,  and  smoke  too,  or  our  eyes  have  strangely 
deceived  us  ;  and  from  the  whole  comfortable  character  and 
fireside  disposition  of  the  nation,  we  should  conjecture  that 
the  architecture  of  the  chimney  would  be  understood,  both  as 
a  matter  of  taste  and  as  a  matter  of  comfort,  to  the  ne  plus 
ultra  of  perfection.  Let  us  see  how  far  our  expectations  are 
realised. 


4:6  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

Figs.  7,  8,  and  9,  are  English  chimneys.  They  are  distin 
guishable,  we  think,  at  a  glance,  from  all  the  rest,  by  a  down- 
right serviceableness  of  appearance,  a  substantial,  unaffected, 
decent,  and  chimney-like  deportment,  in  the  contemplation  of 
which  we  experience  infinite  pleasure  and  edification,  particu- 
larly as  it  seems  to  us  to  be  strongly  contrasted  with  an  ap- 
pearance, in  all  the  other  chimneys  of  an  indefinable  some- 
thing, only  to  be  expressed  by  the  interesting  word  "  humbug." 
Fig.  7  is  a  chimney  of  Cumberland,  and  the  north  of  Lanca- 
shire. It  is,  as  may  be  seen  at  a  glance,  only  applicable  at 
the  extremity  of  the  roof,  and  requires  a  bent  flue.  It  is  built 
of  unhewn  stones,  in  the  same  manner  as  the  Westmoreland 
cottages  ;  the  flue  itself  being  not  one-third  the  width  of  the 
chimney,  as  is  seen  at  the  top,  where  four  flat  stones  placed 
on  their  edges  form  the  termination  of  the  flue  itself,  and  give 
lightness  of  appearance  to  the  whole.  Cover  this  with  a  piece 
of  paper,  and  observe  how  heavy  and  square  the  rest  becomes. 
A  few  projecting  stones  continue  the  line  of  the  roof  across 
the  centre  of  the  chimney,  and  two  large  masses  support  the 
projection  of  the  whole,  and  unite  it  agreeably  with  the  wall. 
This  is  exclusively  a  cottage  chimney ;  it  cannot,  and  must 
not,  be  built  of  civilized  materials ;  it  must  be  rough,  and 
mossy,  and  broken  ;  but  it  is  decidedly  the  best  chimney  of 
the  whole  set.  It  is  simple  and  substantial,  without  being 
cumbrous ;  it  gives  great  variety  to  the  wall  from  which  it 
projects,  terminates  the  roof  agreeably,  and  dismisses  its 
smoke  with  infinite  propriety. 

Fig.  8  is  a  chimney  common  over  the  whole  of  the  north 
of  England  ;  being,  as  I  think,  one  that  will  go  well  in  almost 
any  wind,  and  is  applicable  at  any  part  of  the  roof.  It  is  also 
roughly  built,  consisting  of  a  roof  of  loose  stones,  sometimes 
one  large  flat  slab,  supported  above  the  flue  by  four  large  sup- 
ports, each  of  a  single  stone.  It  is  rather  light  in  its  appear- 
ance, and  breaks  the  ridge  of  a  roof  very  agreeably.  Sepa- 
rately considered,  it  is  badly  proportioned  ;  but,  as  it  just 
equals  the  height  to  which  a  long  chimney  at  the  extremity  of 
the  building  would  rise  above  the  roof  (as  in  Fig.  7)  it  is  quite 
right  in  situ,  and  would  be  ungainly  if  it  were  higher.  The 


48  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

upper  part  is  always  dark,  owing  to  the  smoke,  and  tells  agree, 
ably  against  any  background  seen  through  the  hollow. 

Fig.  9  is  the  chimney  of  the  Westmoreland  cottage  which 
formed  the  subject  of  the  last  paper  (p.  33).  The  good  taste 
which  prevailed  in  the  rest  of  the  building  is  not  so  conspicu- 
ous here,  because  the  architect  has  begun  to  consider  effect 
instead  of  utility,  and  has  put  a  diamond-shaped  piece  of  or- 
nament on  the  front  (usually  containing  the  date  of  the  build- 
ing), which  was  not  necessary,  and  looks  out  of  place.  He 
has  endeavoured  to  build  neatly  too,  and  has  bestowed  a  good 
deal  of  plaster  on  the  outside,  by  all  which  circumstances 
the  work  is  infinitely  deteriorated.  We  have  always  disliked 
cylindrical  chimneys,  probably  because  they  put  us  in  mind  of 
glasshouses  and  manufactories,  for  we  are  aware  of  no  more 
definite  reason  ;  yet  this  example  is  endurable,  and  has  a 
character  about  it  which  it  would  be  a  pity  to  lose.  Some- 
times when  the  square  part  is  carried  down  the  whole  front  of 
the  cottage,  it  looks  like  the  remains  of  some  grey  tower,  and 
is  not  felt  to  be  a  chimney  at  all.  Such  deceptions  are  always 
very  dangerous,  though  in  this  case  sometimes  attended  with 
good  effect,  as  in  the  old  building  called  Coniston  Hall,  on 
the  shores  of  Coniston  Water,  whose  distant  outline  (Fig.  25) 
is  rendered  light  and  picturesque,  by  the  size  and  shape  of 
its  chimneys,  which  are  the  same  in  character  as  Fig.  9. 

Of  English  chimneys  adapted  for  buildings  of  a  more  ele- 
vated character,  we  can  adduce  no  good  examples.  The  old 
red  brick  mass,  which  we  see  in  some  of  our  venerable  manor- 
houses,  has  a  great  deal  of  English  character  about  it,  and  is 
always  agreeable,  when  the  rest  of  the  building  is  of  brick. 
Fig.  21  is  a  chimney  of  this  kind  :  there  is  nothing  remarka- 
ble in  it ;  it  is  to  be  met  with  all  over  England  ;  but  we  have 
placed  it  beside  its  neighbour  Fig.  22,  to  show  how  the  same 
form  and  idea  are  modified  by  the  mind  of  the  nations  who 
employ  it.  The  design  is  the  same  in  both,  the  proportions 
also  ;  but  the  one  is  a  chimney,  the  other  a  paltry  model  of  a 
paltrier  edifice.  Fig.  22  is  Swiss,  and  is  liable  to  all  the  ob- 
jections advanced  against  the  Swiss  cottages  ;  it  is  a  despica- 
ble mimicry  of  a  large  building,  like  the  tower  in  the  engrav- 


THE   COTTAGE. 


49 


ing  of  the  Italian  cottage  (Fig.  40,  p.  118),  carved  in  stone,  it 
is  true,  but  not  the  less  to  be  reprobated.  Fig.  21,  on  the 
contrary,  is  adapted  to  its  use,  and  has  no  affectation  about  it. 
It  would  be  spoiled,  however,  if  built  in  stone ;  because  the 
marked  bricks  tell  us  the  size  of  the  whole  at  once,  and  pre- 
vent the  eye  from  suspecting  any  intention  to  deceive  it  with 
a  mockery  of  arches  and  columns,  the  imitation  of  which 


FIG.  25. 

would  be  too  perfect  in  stone ;  and  therefore,  even  in  this 
case,  we  have  failed  to  discover  a  chimney  adapted  to  the 
higher  class  of  edifices. 

Fig.  10  is  a  Netherland  chimney,  Figs.  11  and  12  German. 
Fig.  10  belongs  to  an  old  Gothic  building  in  Malines,  and  is  a 
good  example  of  the  application  of  the  same  lines  to  the 
chimney  which  occur  in  other  parts  of  the  edifice,  without  be- 
stowing any  false  elevation  of  character.  It  is  roughly  carved 


50  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

in  stone,  projecting  at  its  base  grotesquely  from  the  roof,  and 
covered  at  the  top.  The  pointed  arch,  by  which  its  character 
is  given,  prevents  it  from  breaking  in  upon  the  lines  of  the 
rest  of  the  building,  and,  therefore,  in  reality  it  renders  it  less 
conspicuous  than  it  would  otherwise  have  been.  We  never 
should  have  noticed  its  existence,  had  we  not  been  looking  for 
chimneys. 

Fig.  11  is  also  carved  in  stone,  and  where  there  is  much  va- 
riety of  architecture,  or  where  the  buildings  are  grotesque, 
would  be  a  good  chimney,  for  the  very  simple  reason  that  it 
resembles  nothing  but  a  chimney,  and  its  lines  are  graceful 
Fig.  12,  though  ugly  in  the  abstract,  might  be  used  with  ef- 
fect in  situations  where  perfect  simplicity  would  be  too  con- 
spicuous ;  but  both  Figs.  11  and  12  are  evidently  the  awkward 
efforts  of  a  tasteless  nation,  to  produce  something  original : 
they  have  lost  the  chastity  which  we  admired  in  Fig.  7,  with- 
out obtaining  the  grace  and  spirit  of  Figs.  17  and  20.  In 
fact,  they  are  essentially  German. 

Figs.  14  to  18  inclusive,  are  Spanish,  and  have  a  peculiar 
character,  which  would  render  it  quite  impossible  to  employ 
them  out  of  their  own 'country.  Yet  they  are  not  decorated 
chimneys.  There  is  not  one  fragment  of  ornament  on  any  of 
them.  All  is  done  by  variety  of  form  ;  and  with  such  variety 
no  fault  can  be  found,  because  it  is  necessary  to  give  them  the 
character  of  the  buildings,  out  of  which  they  rise.  For  we 
may  observe  here,  once  for  all,  that  character  may  be  given 
either  by  form  or  by  decoration,  and  that  where  the  latter  is 
improper,  variety  of  the  former  is  allowable,  because  the  hum- 
ble associations  which  render  ornament  objectionable,  also 
render  simplicity  of  form  unnecessary.*  We  need  not  then 
find  fault  with  fantastic  chimneys,  provided  they  are  kept  in 
unison  with  the  rest  of  the  building,  and  do  not  draw  too 
much  attention. 

Fig.  14,  according  to  this  rule,  is  a  very  good  chimney.  It 
is  graceful  without  being  pretending,  and  its  grotesqueness 

*  Elevation  of  character,  as  was  seen  in  the  Italian  cottage,  depends 
upon  simplicity  of  form. 


THE    COTTAGE.  51 

well  suits  the  buildings  round  it — we  wish  we  could  give  them  ; 
they  are  at  Cordova. 

Figs.  16  and  17  ought  to  be  seen,  as  they  would  be  in  real- 
ity, rising  brightly  up  against  the  deep  blue  heaven  of  the 
south,  the  azure  gleaming  through  their  hollows  ;  unless  per- 
chance a  slight  breath  of  refined,  pure,  pale  vapour  finds  its 
way  from  time  to  time  out  of  them  into  the  light  air  ;  their 
tiled  caps  casting  deep  shadows  on  their  white  surfaces,  and 
their  tout  ensemble  causing  no  interruption  to  the  feelings  ex- 
cited by  the  Moresco  arches  and  grotesque  dwelling-houses 
with  which  they  would  be  surrounded  ;  they  are  sadly  spoiled 
by  being  cut  off  at  their  bases. 

Figs.  13,  19,  and  20  are  Italian.  Fig.  13  has  only  been 
given  because  it  is  constantly  met  with  among  the  more  mod- 
ern buildings  of  Italy.  Figs.  19  and  20  are  almost  the  only 
two  varieties  of  chimneys  which  are  to  be  found  on  the  old 
Venetian  palaces  (whose  style  is  to  be  traced  partly  to  the 
Turk,  and  partly  to  the  Moor).  The  curved  lines  of  Fig.  19 
harmonise  admirably  with  those  of  the  roof  itself,  and  its  di- 
minutive size  leaves  the  simplicity  of  form  of  the  large  build- 
ing to  which  it  belongs  entirely  uninterrupted  and  uninjured. 
Fig.  20  is  seen  perpetually  carrying  the  whiteness  of  the  Vene- 
tian marble  up  into  the  sky  ;  but  it  is  too  tall,  and  attracts  by 
far  too  much  attention,  being  conspicuous  on  the  sides  of  all 
the  canals.  Figs.  22,  23,  and  24  are  Swiss.  Fig.  23  is  one 
specimen  of  an  extensive  class  of  decorated  chimneys  met 
with  in  the  north-eastern  cantons.  It  is  never  large,  and  con- 
sequently having  no  false  elevation  of  character,  and  being 
always  seen  with  eyes  which  have  been  prepared  for  it,  by 
resting  on  the  details  of  the  Swiss  cottage,  is  less  disagreeable 
than  might  be  imagined,  but  ought  never  to  be  imitated.  The 
pyramidal  form  is  generally  preserved,  but  the  design  is  the 
same  in  no  two  examples. 

Fig.  24  is  a  chimney  very  common  in  the  eastern  cantons, 
the  principle  of  which  we  never  understood.  The  oblique 
part  moves  on  a  hinge  so  as  to  be  capable  of  covering  the 
chimney  like  a  hat,  and  the  whole  is  covered  with  wooden 
scales,  like  those  of  a  fish.  This  chimney  sometimes  comes  in. 


52  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

very  well  among  the  confused  rafters  of  the  mountain  cottage, 
though  it  is  rather  too  remarkable  to  be  in  good  taste. 

It  seems  then,  that  out  of  the  eighteen  chimneys  which  we 
have  noticed,  though  several  possess  character,  and  one  or  two 
elegance,  only  two  are  to  be  found  fit  for  imitation  ;  and,  of 
these,  one  is  exclusively  a  cottage  chimney.  This  is  somewhat 
remarkable,  and  may  serve  as  a  proof  : — 

1st.  Of  what  we  at  first  asserted,  that  chimneys  which  in 
any  way  attract  notice  (and  if  these  had  not,  we  should  not 
have  sketched  them)  were  seldom  to  be  imitated  ;  that  there 
are  few  buildings  which  require  them  to  be  singular,  and  none 
which  can  tolerate  them  if  decorated  ;  and  that  the  architect 
should  always  remember  that  the  size  and  height  being  by  ne- 
cessity fixed,  the  form  which  draws  least  attention  is  the  best. 

2dly.  That  this  inconspicuousness  is  to  be  obtained,  not  by 
adhering  to  any  model  of  simplicity,  but  by  taking  especial 
care  that  the  lines  of  the  chimneys  are  no  interruption,  and 
its  colour  no  contrast,  to  those  of  the  building  to  which  it  be- 
longs. Thus,  Figs.  14  to  18  would  be  far  more  actually  re- 
markable, in  their  natural  situation,  if  they  were  more  simple 
in  their  form  ;  for  they  would  interrupt  the  character  of  the 
rich  architecture  by  which  they  are  surrounded.  Fig.  10,  ris- 
ing as  it  does  above  an  old  Gothic  window,  would  have  at- 
tracted instant  attention,  had  it  not  been  for  the  occurrence  of 
the  same  lines  in  it  which  prevail  beneath  it.  The  form  of 
Fig.  19  only  assimilates  it  more  closely  with  the  roof  on  which 
it  stands.  But  we  must  not  imitate  chimneys  of  this  kind,  for 
their  excellence  consists  only  in  their  agreement  with  other 
details,  separated  from  which  they  would  be  objectionable  ; 
we  can  only  follow  the  principle  of  the  design,  which  appears, 
from  all  that  we  have  advanced,  to  be  this :  we  require,  in  a 
good  chimney,  the  character  of  the  building  to  which  it  belongs 
divested  of  all  its  elevation,  and  its  prevailing  lines  deprived  of 
all  their  ornament. 

This  it  is,  no  doubt,  excessively  difficult  to  give  ;  and,  in 
consequence,  there  are  very  few  cities  or  edifices  in  which  the 
chimneys  are  not  objectionable.  We  must  not,  therefore, 
omit  to  notice  the  fulfilment  of  our  expectations,  founded  oa 


COTTAGft.  53 

English  character ;  the  only  two  chimneys  fit  for  imitation,  in 
the  whole  eighteen,  are  English ;  and  we  would  not  infer  any- 
thing from  this,  tending  to  invalidate  the  position  formerly 
advanced,  that  there  was  no  taste  in  England  ;  but  we  would 
adduce  it  as  a  farther  illustration  of  the  rule,  that  what  is 
most  adapted  to  its  purpose  is  most  beautiful.  For  that  we 
have  no  taste,  even  in  chimneys,  is  sufficiently  proved  by  the 
roof  effects,  even  of  the  most  ancient,  unaffected,  and  unplas- 
tered  of  our  streets,  in  which  the  chimneys,  instead  of  assist- 
ing in  the  composition  of  the  groups  of  roofs,  stand  out  in 
staring  masses  of  scarlet  and  black,  with  foxes  and  cocks 
whisking  about,  like  so  many  black  devils,  in  the  smoke  on 
the  top  of  them,  interrupting  all  repose,  annihilating  all  dig- 
nity, and  awaking  every  possible  conception  which  would  be 
picturesque,  and  every  imagination  which  would  be  rapturous, 
to  the  mind  of  master-sweeps. 

On  the  other  hand,  though  they  have  not  on  the  Continent 
the  same  knowledge  of  the  use  and  beauty  of  chimneys  in  the 
abstract,  they  display  their  usual  good  taste  in  grouping  or 
concealing  them  ;  and,  whether  we  find  them  mingling  with 
the  fantastic  domiciles  of  the  German,  with  the  rich  imagina- 
tions of  the  Spaniard,  with  the  classical  remains  and  creations 
of  the  Italian,  they  are  never  intrusive  or  disagreeable  ;  and 
either  assist  the  grouping,  and  relieve  the  horizontality  of  the 
lines  of  the  roof,  or  remain  entirely  unnoticed  and  insignifi- 
cant, smoking  their  pipes  in  peace. 

It  is  utterly  impossible  to  give  rules  for  the  attainment  of 
these  effects,  since  they  are  the  result  of  a  feeling  of  the  pro- 
portion and  relation  of  lines,  which,  if  not  natural  to  a  person, 
cannot  be  acquired  but  by  long  practice  and  close  observa- 
tion ;  and  it  presupposes  a  power  rarely  bestowed  on  an  Eng- 
lish architect,  of  setting  regularity  at  defiance,  and  sometimes 
comfort  out  of  the  question.  We  could  give  some  particular 
examples  of  this  grouping  ;  but,  as  this  paper  has  already 
swelled  to  an  unusual  length,  we  shall  defer  them  until  we 
come  to  the  consideration  of  street  effects  in  general.  Of  the 
chimney  in  the  abstract,  we  are  afraid  we  have  only  said 
enough  to  illustrate,  without  removing,  the  difficulty  of  de- 


54  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

signing  it ;  but  we  cannot  but  think  that  the  general  prin- 
ciples which  have   been  deduced,  if  carefully  followed  out, 
would  be  found  useful,  if  not  for  the  attainment  of  excellence, 
at  least  for  the  prevention  of  barbarism. 
Oxford,  Feb.  10. 

IT  now  only  remains  for  us  to  conclude  the  subject  of  the 
Cottage,  by  a  few  general  remarks  on  the  just  application  of 
modern  buildings  to  adorn  or  vivify  natural  scenery. 

There  are,  we  think,  only  three  cases  in  which  the  cottage 
is  considered  as  an  element  of  architectural,  or  any  other  kind 
of  beauty,  since  it  is  ordinarily  raised  by  the  peasant  where 
he  likes,  and  how  he  likes  ;  and,  therefore,  as  we  have  seen, 
frequently  in  good  taste. 

.  1.  When  a  nobleman,  or  man  of  fortune,  amuses  himself 
with  superintending  the  erection  of  the  domiciles  of  his 
domestics.  2.  When  ornamental  summer-houses,  or  mimic- 
ries of  wigwams,  are  to  be  erected  as  ornamental  adjuncts  to 
a  prospect  which  the  owner  has  done  all  he  can  to  spoil,  that 
it  may  be  worthy  of  the  honour  of  having  him  to  look  at  it. 
3.  When  the  landlord  exercises  a  certain  degree  of  influence 
over  the  cottages  of  his  tenants,  or  the  improvements  of  the 
neighbouring  village,  so  as  to  induce  such  a  tone  of  feeling  in 
the  new  erections  as  he  may  think  suitable  to  their  situation. 

In  the  first  of  these  cases,  there  is  little  to  be  said  ;  for  the 
habitation  of  the  domestic  is  generally  a  dependent  feature  of 
his  master's,  and,  therefore,  to  be  considered  as  a  part  of  it. 
Porters'  lodges  are  also  dependent  upon,  and  to  be  regulated 
by,  the  style  of  the  architecture  to  which  they  are  attached  ; 
and  they  are  generally  well  managed  in  England,  properly 
united  with  the  gate,  and  adding  to  the  effect  of  the  en- 
trance. 

In  the  second  case,  as  the  act  is  in  itself  a  barbarism,  it 
would  be  useless  to  consider  what  would  be  the  best  mode  of 
perpetrating  it. 

In  the  third  case,  we  think  it  will  be  useful  to  apply  a  few 
general  principles,  deduced  from  positions  formerly  advanced. 

All  buildings  are,  of  course,  to  be  considered  in  connexion 


THE   COTTAGE.  55 

with  the  country  in  which  they  are  to  be  raised.  Now.  .ill 
landscape  must  possess  one  out  of  four  distinct  characters. 

It  must  be  either  woody,  the  green  country  ;  cultivated, 
the  blue  country  ;  wild,  the  grey  country  ;  or  hilly,  the  brown 
country. 

1.  The  Woody,  or  green,  Country.  By  this  is  to  be  under- 
stood the  mixture  of  park,  pasture,  and  variegated  forest, 
which  is  only  to  be  seen  in  temperate  climates,  and  in  those 
parts  of  a  kingdom  which  have  not  often  changed  proprietors, 
but  have  remained  in  unproductive  beauty  (or  at  least,  fur- 
nishing timber  only),  the  garden  of  the  wealthier  population. 
It  is  to  be  seen  in  no  other  country,  perhaps,  so  weh1  as  in 
England.  In  other  districts,  we  find  extensive  masses  of 
black  forest,  but  not  the  mixture  of  sunny  glade,  and  various 
foliage,  and  dewy  sward,  which  we  meet  with  in  the  richer 
park  districts  of  England.  This  kind  of  country  is  always 
surgy,  oceanic,  and  massy,  in  its  outline  ;  it  never  affords  blue 
distances,  unless  seen  from  a  height ;  and,  even  then,  the 
nearer  groups  are  large,  and  draw  away  the  attention  from 
the  background.  The  under  soil  is  kept  cool  by  the  shade, 
and  its  vegetation  rich  ;  so  that  the  prevailing  colour,  except 
for  a  few  days  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  is  a  fresh  green.  A  good 
example  of  this  kind  of  country  is  the  view  from  Richmond 
Hill. 

Now,  first,  let  us  consider  what  sort  of  feeling  this  green 
country  excites  ;  and,  in  order  to  do  so,  be  it  observed,  that 
anything  which  is  apparently  enduring  and  unchangeable 
gives  us  an  impression  rather  of  future,  than  of  past,  duration 
of  existence  ;  but  anything  which  being  perishable,  and  from 
its  nature  subject  to  change,  has  yet  existed  to  a  great  age, 
gives  us  an  impression  of  antiquity,  though,  of  course,  none  of 
stability.  A  mountain,  for  instance  (not  geologically  speak- 
ing, for  then  the  furrows  on  its  brow  give  it  age  as  visible  as 
was  ever  wrinkled  on  human  forehead,  but  considering  it  as 
it  appears  to  ordinary  eyes),  appears  to  be  beyond  the  influ- 
ence of  change  :  it  does  not  put  us  in  mind  of  its  past  exist- 
ence by  showing  us  any  of  the  effect  of  time  upon  itself ;  we 
do  not  feel  that  it  is  old,  because  it  is  not  approaching  any 


56  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

kind  of  death  :  it  is  a  mass  of  unsentient  undecaying  matter, 
which,  if  we  think  about  it,  we  discover  must  have  existed  fot 
some  time,  but  which  does  not  tell  this  fact  to  our  feelings, 
or,  rather,  which  tells  us  of  no  time  at  which  it  came  into 
existence ;  and,  therefore,  gives  us  no  standard  by  which  to 
measure  its  age,  which,  unless  measured,  cannot  be  distinctly 
felt.  But  a  very  old  forest  tree  is  a  thing  subject  to  the  same 
laws  of  nature  as  ourselves  :  it  is  an  energetic  being,  liable  to 
and  approaching  death ;  its  age  is  written  on  every  spray  ; 
and,  because  we  see  it  is  susceptible  of  life  and  annihilation,  like 
our  own,  we  imagine  it  must  be  capable  of  the  same  feelings, 
and  possess  the  same  faculties,  and,  above  all  others,  memory  : 
it  is  always  telling  us  about  the  past,  never  pointing  to  the 
future  ;  we  appeal  to  it,  as  to  a  thing  which  has  seen  and  felt 
during  a  life  similar  to  our  own,  though  of  ten  times  its  dura- 
tion, and  therefore  receive  from  it  a  perpetual  impression  of 
antiquity.  So,  again,  a  ruined  tower  gives  us  an  impression 
of  antiquity  :  the  stones  of  which  it  is  built,  none  ;  for  their 
age  is  not  written  upon  them. 

This  being  the  case,  it  is  evident  that  the  chief  feeling  in- 
duced by  woody  country  is  one  of  reverence  for  its  antiquity. 
There  is  a  quiet  melancholy  about  the  decay  of  the  patriarchal 
trunks,  which  is  enhanced  by  the  green  and  elastic  vigour  of 
the  young  saplings ;  the  noble  form  of  the  forest  aisles,  and  the 
subdued  light  which  penetrates  their  entangled  boughs,  com- 
bine to  add  to  the  impression  ;  and  the  whole  character  of 
the  scene  is  calculated  to  excite  conservative  feeling.  The 
man  who  could  remain  a  radical  in  a  wood  country  is  a  dis- 
grace to  his  species. 

Now,  this  feeling  of  mixed  melancholy  and  veneration  is 
the  one  of  all  others  which  the  modern  cottage  must  not  be 
allowed  to  violate.  It  may  be  fantastic  or  rich  in  detail ;  for 
the  one  character  will  make  it  look  old-fashioned,  and  the 
other  will  assimilate  with  the  intertwining  of  leaf  and  bough 
around  it ;  but  it  must  not  be  spruce  or  natty,  or  very  bright 
in  colour  ;  and  the  older  it  looks  the  better. 

A  little  grotesqueness  in  form  is  the  more  allowable,  be- 
cause the  imagination  is  naturally  active  in  the  obscure  and 


THE   COTTAGE.  57 

indefinite  daylight  of  wood  scenery  ;  conjures  up  innumerable 
beings,  of  every  size  and  shape,  to  people  its  alleys  and  smile 
through  its  thickets  ;  and  is  by  no  means  displeased  to  find 
some  of  its  inventions  half -realized,  in  a  decorated  panel  or 
grinning  extremity  of  a  rafter. 

These  characters  being  kept  in  view,  as  objects  to  be  at- 
tained, the  remaining  considerations  are  technical. 

For  the  form.  Select  any  well-grown  group  of  the  tree 
which  prevails  most  near  the  proposed  site  of  the  cottage. 
Its  summit  will  be  a  rounded  mass.  Take  the  three  prin- 
cipal points  of  its  curve ;  namely,  its  apex  (c),  and  the  two 
points  where  it  unites  itself  with  neighbouring  masses  (a  and 


FIG.  26. 

b,  Fig.  26).  Strike  a  circle  through  these  three  points  ;  and 
the  angle  contained  in  the  segment  cut  off  by  a  line  joining  a 
and  6  is  to  be  the  angle  of  the  cottage  roof.  (Of  course  we 
are  not  thinking  of  interior  convenience  ;  the  architect  must 
establish  his  model  of  beauty  first,  and  then  approach  it  as 
nearly  as  he  can.)  This  angle  will  generally  be  very  obtuse  ; 
and  this  is  one  reason  why  the  Swiss  cottage  is  always  beau- 
tiful when  it  is  set  among  walnut  or  chestnut  trees.  Its  ob- 
tuse roof  is  just  about  the  true  angle.  With  pines  or  larches, 
the  angle  should  not  be  regulated  by  the  form  of  the  tree, 
but  by  the  slope  of  the  branches.  The  building  itself  should 
be  low  and  long,  so  that,  if  possible,  it  may  not  be  seen  all  at 
once,  but  may  be  partially  concealed  by  trunks  or  leafage  at 
various  distances. 

For  the  colour,  that  of  wood,  is  always  beautiful.  If  the 
wood  of  the  near  trees  be  used,  so  much  the  better  ;  but  the 
timber  should  be  rough-hewn,  and  allowed  to  get  weather- 
stained.  Cold  colours  will  not  suit  with  green  ;  and,  there- 


58  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

fore,  slated  roofs  are  disagreeable,  unless,  as  in  the  West- 
moreland cottage,  tlie  grey  roof  is  warmed  with  licheuous 
vegetation,  when  it  will  do  well  with  anything  ;  but  thatch  is 
better.  If  the  building  be  not  of  wood,  the  walls  may  be 
built  of  anything  which  will  give  them  a  quiet  and  unobtrud- 
ing  warmth  of  tone.  White,  if  in  shade,  is  sometimes  allow- 
able ;  but,  if  visible  at  any  point  more  than  200  yards  off, 
it  will  spoil  the  whole  landscape.  In  general,  as  we  saw  be- 
fore, the  building  will  bear  some  fantastic  finishing,  that  is,  if 
it  be  entangled  in  forest ;  but  if  among  massive  groups  of 
trees,  separated  by  smooth  sward,  it  must  be  kept  simple. 

2.  The  Cultivated,  or  blue,  Country.  This  is  the  rich 
champaign  land,  in  which  large  trees  are  more  sparingly 
scattered,  and  which  is  chiefly  devoted  to  the  purposes  of 
agriculture.  In  this  we  are  perpetually  getting  blue  dis- 
tances from  the  slightest  elevation,  which  are  rendered  more 
decidedly  so  by  their  contrast  with  warm  corn  or  ploughed 
fields  in  the  foreground.  Such  is  the  greater  part  of  Eng- 
land. The  view  from  the  hills  of  Malvern  is  a  good  example. 
In  districts  of  this  kind,  all  is  change  ;  one  year's  crop  has  no 
memory  of  its  predecessor  ;  all  is  activity,  prosperity  and  use- 
fulness ;  nothing  is  left  to  the  imagination  ;  there  is  no  ob- 
scurity, no  poetry,  no  nonsense  ;  the  colours  of  the  landscape 
are  bright  and  varied ;  it  is  thickly  populated,  and  glowing 
with  animal  life.  Here,  then,  the  character  of  the  cottage 
must  be  cheerfulness :  its  colours  may  be  vivid  ;  white  is 
always  beautiful ;  even  red  tiles  are  allowable,  and  red  bricks 
endurable.  Neatness  will  not  spoil  it ;  the  angle  of  its  roof 
may  be  acute,  its  windows  sparkling,  and  its  roses  red  and 
abundant ;  but  it  must  not  be  ornamented  nor  fantastic,  it 
must  be  evidently  built  for  the  uses  of  common  life,  and  have 
a  matter-of-fact,  business-like  air  about  it.  Its  outhouses, 
and  pigsties,  and  dunghills  should,  therefore,  be  kept  in 
sight :  the  latter  may  be  made  very  pretty  objects  by  twist- 
ing them  with  the  pitchfork,  and  plaiting  them  into  braids, 
as  the  Swiss  do. 

The  Wild,  or  grey,  Country.  "  Wild  "  is  not  exactly  a  cor- 
rect epithet ;  we  mean  wide,  unenclosed,  treeless  undulations 


THE    COTTAGE.  59 

of  land,  -whether  cultivated  or  not.  The  greater  part  of  north- 
ern France,  though  well  brought  under  the  plough,  would 
come  under  the  denomination  of  grey  country.  Occasional 
masses  of  monotonous  forest  do  not  destroy  this  character. 
Here,  size  is  desirable,  and  massiveness  of  form  ;  but  we  must 
have  no  brightness  of  colour  in  the  cottage,  otherwise  it  would 
draw  the  eye  to  it  at  three  miles  off,  and  the  whole  landscape 
would  be  covered  with  conspicuous  dots.  White  is  agreeable, 
if  sobered  down  ;  slate  allowable  on  the  roof,  as  well  as  thatch. 
For  the  rest,  we  need  only  refer  to  the  remarks  formerly  made 
on  the  propriety  of  the  French  cottage. 

Lastly,  Hill,  or  brown,  Country.  And  here,  if  we  look  to 
England  alone,  as  peculiarly  a  cottage  country,  the  remarks 
formerly  advanced,  in  the  consideration  of  the  Westmoreland 
cottage,  are  sufficient ;  but,  if  we  go  into  mountain  districts 
of  more  varied  character,  we  shall  find  a  difference  existing  be- 
tween every  range  of  hills,  which  will  demand  a  corresponding 
difference  in  the  style  of  their  cottages.  The  principles,  how- 
ever, are  the  same  in  all  situations,  and  it  would  be  a  hopeless 
task  to  endeavour  to  give  more  than  general  principles.  In 
hill  country,  however,  another  question  is  introduced,  whose 
investigation  is  peculiarly  necessary  in  cases  in  which  the 
ground  has  inequality  of  surface,  that  of  position.  And  the 
difficulty  here  is,  not  so  much  to  ascertain  where  the  building 
ought  to  be,  as  to  put  it  there,  without  suggesting  any  en- 
quiry as  to  the  mode  in  which  it  got  there  ;  to  prevent  its  just 
application  from  appearing  artificial.  But  we  cannot  enter  into 
this  enquiry,  before  laying  down  a  number  of  principles  of 
composition,  which  are  applicable,  not  only  to  cottages,  but 
generally,  and  which  we  cannot  deduce  until  we  come  to  the 
consideration  of  buildings  in  groups. 

Such  are  the  great  divisions  under  which  country  and  rural 
buildings  may  be  comprehended  ;  but  there  are  intermediate 
conditions,  in  which  modified  forms  of  the  cottage  are  appli- 
cable ;  and  it  frequently  happens  that  country  which,  consid- 
ered in  the  abstract,  would  fall  under  one  of  these  classes,  pos- 
sesses, owing  to  its  peculiar  climate  or  associations,  a  very 
different  character.  Italy,  for  instance,  is  blue  country  ;  yefc 


60  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

it  has  not  the  least  resemblance  to  English  blue  country.  We 
have  paid  particular  attention  to  wood  ;  first,  because  we  had 
not,  in  any  previous  paper,  considered  what  was  beautiful  in  a 
forest  cottage  ;  and,  secondly,  because  in  such  districts  there 
is  generally  much  more  influence  exercised  by  proprietors  over 
their  tenantry,  than  in  populous  and  cultivated  districts  ;  and 
our  English  park  scenery,  though  exquisitely  beautiful,  is 
sometimes,  we  think,  a  little  monotonous,  from  the  want  of 
this  very  feature. 

And  now,  farewell  to  the  cottage,  and,  with  it,  to  the  humil- 
ity of  natural  scenery.  We  are  sorry  to  leave  it ;  not  that  we 
have  any  idea  of  living  in  a  cottage,  as  a  comfortable  thing  ; 
not  that  we  prefer  mud  to  marble,  or  deal  to  mahogany  ;  but 
that,  with  it,  we  leave  much  of  what  is  most  beautiful  of  earth, 
the  low  and  bee-inhabited  scenery,  which  is  full  of  quiet  and 
prideless  emotion,  of  such  calmness  as  we  can  imagine  pre- 
vailing over  our  earth  when  it  was  new  in  heaven.  We  are 
going  into  higher  walks  of  architecture,  where  we  shall  find  a 
less  close  connexion  established  between  the  building  and  the 
soil  on  which  it  stands,  or  the  air  with  which  it  is  surrounded, 
but  a  closer  connexion  with  the  character  of  its  inhabitant. 
We  shall  have  less  to  do  with  natural  feeling,  and  more  with 
human  passion  ;  we  are  coming  out  of  stillness  into  turbulence, 
out  of  seclusion  into  the  multitude,  out  of  the  wilderness  into 
the  world. 


THE  VILLA.  61 


THE  VILLA. 

The  Mountain  Villa. — Lago  di  Como. 

IN  all  arts  or  sciences,  before  we  can  determine  what  is  just 
or  beautiful  in  a  group,  we  must  ascertain  what  is  desirable  in 
the  parts  which  compose  it,  separately  considered  ;  and  there- 
fore it  will  be  most  advantageous  in  the  present  case  to  keep 
out  of  the  village  and  the  city,  until  we  have  searched  hill  and 
dale  for  examples  of  isolated  buildings.  This  mode  of  con- 
sidering the  subject  is  also  agreeable  to  the  feelings,  as  the 
transition  from  the  higher  orders  of  solitary  edifices,  to  groups 
of  associated  edifices,  is  not  too  sudden  or  startling,  as  that 
from  nature's  most  humble  peace,  to  man's  most  turbulent 
pride. 

We  have  contemplated  the  rural  dwelling  of  the  peasant ; 
let  us  next  consider  the  ruralised  domicile  of  the  gentleman  : 
and  here,  as  before,  we  shall  first  determine  what  is  theoreti- 
cally beautiful,  and  then  observe  how  far  our  expectations  are 
fulfilled  in  individual  buildings.  But  a  few  preliminary  ob- 
servations are  necessary. 

Man,  the  peasant,  is  a  being  of  more  marked  national  char- 
acter, than  man,  the  educated  and  refined.  For  nationality  is 
founded,  in  a  great  degree,  on  prejudices  and  feelings  incul- 
cated and  aroused  in  youth,  which  grow  inveterate  in  the  mind  as 
long  as  its  views  are  confined  to  the  place  of  its  birth  ;  its  ideas 
moulded  by  the  customs  of  its  country,  and  its  conversation 
limited  to  a  circle  composed  of  individuals  of  habits  and  feel- 
ings like  its  own  ;  but  which  are  gradually  softened  down,  and 
eradicated,  when  the  mind  is  led  into  general  views  of  things, 
when  it  is  guided  by  reflection  instead  of  habit,  and  has  begun 
to  lay  aside  opinions  contracted  under  the  influence  of  asso- 
ciation and  prepossession,  substituting  in  their  room  philo- 
sophical deductions  from  the  calm  contemplation  of  the  various, 


62  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

tempers,  and  thoughts,  and  customs,  of  mankind.  The  love 
of  its  country  will  remain  with  undiminished  strength  in  the 
cultivated  mind,  but  the  national  modes  of  thinking  will  van- 
ish from  the  disciplined  intellect.  Now  as  it  is  only  by  these 
mannerisms  of  thought  that  architecture  is  affected,  we  shall 
find  that  the  more  polished  the  mind  of  its  designer,  the  less 
national  will  be  the  building ;  for  its  architect  will  be  led  away 
by  a  search  after  a  model  of  ideal  beauty,  and  will  not  be  in- 
voluntarily guided  by  deep-rooted  feelings,  governing  irresisti- 
bly his  heart  and  hand.  He  will  therefore  be  in  perpetual 
danger  of  forgetting  the  necessary  unison  of  scene  and  climate, 
and  following  up  the  chase  of  the  ideal,  will  neglect  the  beauty 
of  the  natural ;  an  error  which  he  could  not  commit,  were  he 
less  general  in  his  views,  for  then  the  prejudices  to  which  he 
would  be  subject,  would  be  as  truly  in  unison  with  the  objects 
which  created  them,  as  answering  notes  with  the  chords  which 
awaken  them.  "We  must  not,  therefore,  be  surprised,  if  build- 
ings bearing  impress  of  the  exercise  of  fine  thought  and  high 
talent  in  their  design,  should  yet  offend  us  by  perpetual  dis- 
cords with  scene  and  climate  ;  and  if,  therefore,  we  sometimes 
derive  less  instruction,  and  less  pleasure,  from  the  columnar 
portico  of  the  Palace,  than  from  the  latched  door  of  the  Cot- 
tage. 

Again  :  man,  in  his  hours  of  relaxation,  when  he  is  en- 
gaged in  the  pursuits  of  mere  pleasure,  is  less  national  than 
when  he  is  under  the  influence  of  any  of  the  more  violent 
feelings  which  agitate  every-day  life.  The  reason  of  this  may 
at  first  appear  somewhat  obscure,  but  it  will  become  evident, 
on  a  little  reflection.  Aristotle's  definition  of  pleasure,  per- 
haps the  best  ever  given,  is,  "  an  agitation,  and  settling  of  the 
spirit  into  its  own  proper  nature  ; "  similar,  by  the  by,  to 
the  giving  of  liberty  of  motion  to  the  molecules  of  a  mineral, 
followed  by  their  crystallisation,  into  their  own  proper  form. 
Now  this  "proper  nature,"  vTra.px<>voiv  Ovvw,  is  not  the  ac- 
quired national  habit,  but  the  common  and  universal  consti- 
tution of  the  human  soul.  This  constitution  is  kept  under 
by  the  feelings  which  prompt  to  action,  for  those  feelings  de- 
pend upon  parts  of  character,  or  of  prejudice,  which  are  pecu- 


THE   VILLA.  63 

liar  to  individuals  or  to  nations  ;  and  the  pleasure  which  all 
men  seek  is  a  kind  of  partial  casting  away  of  these  more 
active  feelings,  to  return  to  the  calm  and  unchanging  consti- 
tution of  mind  which  is  the  same  in  all.  We  shall,  there- 
fore, find  that  man,  in  the  business  of  his  life,  in  religion, 
war,  or  ambition,  is  national,  but  in  relaxation  he  manifests  a 
nature  common  to  every  individual  of  his  race.  A  Turk,  for 
instance,  and  an  English  farmer,  smoking  their  evening 
pipes,  differ  only  in  so  much  as  the  one  has  a  mouth-piece  of 
amber,  and  the  other  one  of  sealing-wax ;  the  one  has  a  tur- 
ban on  his  head,  and  the  other  a  night-cap  ;  they  are  the  same 
in  feeling,  and  to  all  intents  and  purposes  the  same  men.  But 
a  Turkish  janissary  and  an  English  grenadier  differ  widely  in 
all  their  modes  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  acting ;  they  are 
strictly  national.  So  again,  a  Tyrolese  evening  dance,  though 
the  costume,  and  the  step,  and  the  music  may  be  different,  is 
the  same  in  feeling  as  that  of  the  Parisian  guinguette  ;  but  fol- 
low the  Tyrolese  into  their  temples,  and  their  deep  devotion 
and  beautiful  though  superstitious  reverence  will  be  found 
very  different  from  any  feeling  exhibited  during  a  mass  in 
Notre-Dame.  This  being  the  case,  it  is  a  direct  consequence, 
that  we  shall  find  much  nationality  in  the  Church  or  the  For- 
tress, or  in  any  building  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  active 
life,  but  very  little  in  that  which  is  dedicated  exclusively  to 
relaxation,  the  Villa.  We  shall  be  compelled  to  seek  out  na- 
tions of  very  strong  feeling  and  imaginative  disposition,  or 
we  shall  find  no  correspondence  whatever  between  their  char- 
acter, and  that  of  their  buildings  devoted  to  pleasure.  In 
our  own  country,  for  instance,  there  is  not  the  slightest.  Be- 
ginning at  the  head  of  Windermere,  and  running  down  its 
border  for  about  six  miles,  there  are  six  important  gentle- 
men's seats,  villas  they  may  be  called,  the  first  of  which  is  a 
square  white  mass,  decorated  with  pilasters  of  no  order,  set 
in  a  green  avenue,  sloping  down  to  the  water ;  the  second  is 
an  imitation,  we  suppose,  of  something  possessing  theoretical 
existence  in  Switzerland,  with  sharp  gable  ends,  and  wooden 
flourishes  turning  the  corners,  set  on  a  little  dumpy  mound, 
with  a  slate  wall  running  all  round  it,  glittering  with  iron 


64:  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

pyrites ;  the  third  is  a  blue  dark-looking  box,  squeezed  up 
into  a  group  of  straggly  larches,  with  a  bog  in  front  of  it ; 
the  fourth  is  a  cream-coloured  domicile,  in  a  large  park, 
rather  quiet  and  unaffected,  the  best  of  the  four,  though  that 
is  not  saying  much ;  the  fifth  is  an  old-fashioned  thing, 
formal,  and  narrow-windowed,  yet  grey  in  its  tone,  and  quiet, 
and  not  to  be  maligned ;  and  the  sixth  is  a  nondescript,  cir- 
cular, putty-coloured  habitation,  with  a  leaden  dome  on  the 
top  of  it.  If,  however,  instead  of  taking  Windermere,  we 
trace  the  shore  of  the  Lago  di  Como,  we  shall  find  some 
expression  and  nationality,  and  there,  therefore,  will  we  go, 
to  return,  however,  to  England,  when  we  have  obtained  some 
data  by  which  to  judge  of  her  more  fortunate  edifices.  We 
notice  the  Mountain  Villa  first,  for  two  reasons ;  because 
effect  is  always  more  considered  in  its  erection,  than  when  it 
is  to  be  situated  in  a  less  interesting  country,  and  because 
the  effect  desired  is  very  rarely  given,  there  being  far  greater 
difficulties  to  contend  with.  But  one  word  more,  before  set- 
ting off  for  the  south.  Though,  as  we  saw  before,  the  gentle- 
man has  less  national  character  than  the  boor,  his  individual 
character  is  more  marked,  especially  in  its  finer  features, 
which  are  clearly  and  perfectly  developed  by  education  ;  con- 
sequently, when  the  inhabitant  of  the  villa  has  had  anything 
to  do  with  its  erection,  we  might  expect  to  find  indications  of 
individual  and  peculiar  feelings,  which  it  would  be  most 
interesting  to  follow  out.  But  this  is  no  part  of  our  present 
task ;  at  some  future  period  we  hope  to  give  a  series  of 
essays  on  the  habitations  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
Europe,  showing  how  the  alterations  which  they  directed, 
and  the  expression  which  they  bestowed,  corresponded  with 
the  turn  of  their  emotions,  and  leading  intellectual  facul- 
ties ;  but  at  present  we  have  to  deal  only  with  generalities  ; 
we  have  to  ascertain,  not  what  will  be  pleasing  to  a  single 
mind,  but  what  will  afford  gratification  to  every  eye  possess- 
ing a  certain  degree  of  experience,  and  every  mind  endowed 
with  a  certain  degree  of  taste. 

Without  further  preface,  therefore,  let  us  endeavour  to  as- 
certain what  would  be  theoretically  beautiful,  on  the  shore, 


TEE   VILLA.  65 

or  among  the  scenery  of  the  Larian  Lake,  preparatory  to  a 
sketch  of  the  general  features  of  those  villas  which  exist  there, 
in  too  great  a  multitude  to  admit,  on  our  part,  of  much  in- 
dividual detail. 

For  the  general  tone  of  the  scenery,  we  may  refer  to  the 
paper  on  the  Italian  cottage  ;  *  for  the  shores  of  the  Lake  of 

*  The  Character  of  the  Italian  Mountain  Scenery. — That  Italian  moun- 
tain scenery  has  less  elevation  of  character  than  the  plains  may  appear 
singular  ;  but  there  are  many  simple  reasons  for  a  fact  which,  we  doubt 
not,  has  been  felt  by  every  one  (capable  of  feeling  anything)  who  ever 
left  the  Alps  to  pass  into  Lombardy.  The  first  is,  that  a  mountain 
scene,  as  we  saw  in  the  last  paper,  bears  no  traces  of  decay,  since  it 
never  possessed  any  of  life.  The  desolation  of  the  sterile  peaks,  never 
having  been  interrupted,  is  altogether  free  from  the  melancholy  which 
is  consequent  on  the  passing  away  of  interruption.  They  stood  up  in 
the  time  of  Italy's  glory,  into  the  voiceless  air,  while  all  the  life  and 
light  which  she  remembers  now  was  working  and  moving  at  their  feet, 
an  animated  cloud,  which  they  did  not  feel,  and  do  not  miss.  That 
region  of  life  never  reached  up  their  flanks,  and  has  left  them  no  me- 
morials of  its  being  ;  they  have  no  associations,  no  monuments,  no 
memories  ;  we  look  on  them  as  we  would  on  other  hills :  things  of  ab- 
stract and  natural  magnificence,  which  the  presence  of  man  could  not 
increase,  nor  his  departure  sadden.  They  are,  in  consequence,  destitute 
of  all  that  renders  the  name  of  Ausonia  thrilling,  or  her  champaigns 
beautiful,  beyond  the  mere  splendour  of  climate  ;  and  even  that  splen- 
dour is  unshared  by  the  mountain  ;  its  cold  atmosphere  being  undis- 
tinguished by  any  of  that  rich,  purple,  ethereal  transparency,  which 
gives  the  air  of  the  plains  its  depth  of  feeling  :  we  can  find  no  better 
expression. 

Secondly.  In  all  hill  scenery,  though  there  is  increase  of  size,  there 
is  want  of  distance.  We  are  not  speaking  of  views  from  summits,  but 
of  the  average  aspect  of  valleys.  Suppose  the  mountains  be  10,000  ft. 
high,  their  summits  will  not  be  more  than  six  miles  distant  in  a  direct 
line  ;  and  there  is  a  general  sense  of  confinement,  induced  by  their 
wall-like  boundaries,  which  is  painful,  contrasted  with  the  wide  expa- 
tiation  of  spirit  induced  by  a  distant  view  over  plains.  In  ordinary 
countries,  however,  where  the  plain  is  an  uninteresting  mass  of  cultiva- 
tion, the  sublimity  of  distance  is  not  to  be  compared  to  that  of  size : 
but,  where  every  yard  of  the  cultivated  country  has  its  tale  to  tell , 
where  it  is  perpetually  intersected  by  rivers  whose  names  are  meaning 
music,  and  glancing  with  cities  and  villages,  every  one  of  which  has  its 
own  halo  round  its  head  ;  and  where  the  eye  is  carried  by  the  clearness 
of  the  air  over  the  blue  of  the  farthest  horizon,  without  finding  on« 
5 


66  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

Como  have  generally  the  character  there  described,  with  a 
little  more  cheerfulness,  and  a  little  less  elevation,  but  aided 
by  great  variety  of  form.  They  are  not  quite  so  rich  in  veg- 
etation as  the  plains  :  both  because  the  soil  is  scanty,  there 
being,  of  course,  no  decomposition  going  on  among  the  rocks 
of  black  marble  which  form  the  greater  part  of  the  shore ; 
and  because  the  mountains  rise  steeply  from  the  water,  leaving 
only  a  narrow  zone  at  their  bases  in  the  climate  of  Italy.  In 
that  zone,  however,  the  olive  grows  in  great  luxuriance,  with 
the  cypress,  orange,  aloe,  myrtle,  and  vine,  the  latter  always 
trellised. 

Now,  as  to  the  situation  of  the  cottage,  we  have  already  seen 
that  great  humility  was  necessary,  both  in  the  building  and 
its  site,  to  prevent  it  from  offending  us  by  an  apparent  strug- 
gle with  forces,  compared  with  which  its  strength  was  dust : 
but  we  cannot  have  this  extreme  humility  in  the  villa,  the 
dwelling  of  wealth  and  power,  and  yet  we  must  not,  any  more, 

wreath  of  mist,  or  one  shadowy  cloud,  to  check  the  distinctness  of  the 
impression  ;  the  mental  emotions  excited  are  richer,  and  deeper,  and 
swifter  than  could  be  awakened  by  the  noblest  hills  of  the  earth,  un- 
connected with  the  deeds  of  men. 

Lastly.  The  plain  country  of  Italy  has  not  even  to  choose  between 
the  glory  of  distance  and  of  size,  for  it  has  both.  I  do  not  think  there 
is  a  spot,  from  Venice  to  Messina,  where  two  ranges  of  mountains,  at 
the  least,  are  not  in  sight  at  the  same  time.  In  Lombardy,  the  Alps  are 
on  one  side,  the  Apennines  on  the  other  ;  in  the  Venetian  territory,  the 
Alps,  Apennines,  and  Euganean  Hills ;  going  southwards,  the  Apen- 
nines always,  their  outworks  running  far  towards  the  sea,  and  the  coast 
itself  frequently  mountainous.  Now,  the  aspect  of  a  noble  range  of 
hills,  at  a  considerable  distance,  is,  in  our  opinion,  far  more  imposing 
(considered  in  the  abstract)  than  they  are  seen  near :  their  height  is 
better  told,  their  outlines  softer  and  more  melodious,  their  majesty  more 
mysterious.  But,  in  Italy,  they  gain  more  by  distance  than  majesty : 
they  gain  life.  They  cease  to  be  the  cold  forgetful  things  they  were  ; 
they  hold  the  noble  plains  in  their  lap,  and  become  venerable,  as  hav- 
ing looked  down  upon  them,  and  watched  over  them  for  ever,  unchang- 
ing ;  they  become  part  of  the  pictures  of  associations  ;  we  endow  them 
with  memory,  and  then  feel  them  to  be  possessed  of  all  that  is  glorious 
on  earth. 

For  these  three  reasons,  then,  the  plains  of  Italy  possess  far  more  ele- 
vation of  character  than  her  hill  scenery .  To  the  northward,  this  con- 


THE   VILLA.  6V 

suggest  the  idea  of  its  resisting  natural  influences  under  which 
the  Pyramids  could  not  abide.  The  only  way  of  solving  the 
difficulty  is,  to  select  such  sites  as  shall  seem  to  have  been 
set  aside  by  nature  as  places  of  rest,  as  points  of  calm  and 
enduring  beauty,  ordained  to  sit  and  smile  in  their  glory  of 
quietness,  while  the  avalanche  brands  the  mountain  top,  and 
the  torrent  desolates  the  valley  ;  yet  so  preserved,  not  by 
shelter  amidst  violence,  but  by  being  placed  wholly  out  of  the 
influence  of  violence.  For  in  this  they  must  differ  from  the 
site  of  the  cottage,  that  the  peasant  may  seek  for  protection 
under  some  low  rock  or  in  some  narrow  dell,  but  the  villa 
must  have  a  domain  to  itself,  at  once  conspicuous,  beautiful, 
and  calm. 

As  regards  the  form  of  the  cottage,  we  have  seen  how  the 
Westmoreland  cottage  harmonised  with  the  ease  of  outline  so 
conspicuous  in  hill  scenery,  by  the  irregularity  of  its  details  ; 
but,  here,  no  such  irregularity  is  allowable  or  consistent,  and 
is  not  even  desirable.  For  the  cottage  enhances  the  wildness 

trast  is  felt  very  strikingly,  as  tlie  distinction  is  well  marked,  the  Alps  ris- 
ing sharply  and  suddenly.  To  the  southward,  the  plain  is  more  mingled 
with  low  projecting  promontories,  and  unites  almost  every  kind  of 
beauty.  However,  even  among  her  northern  lakes,  the  richness  of  the 
low  climate,  and  the  magnificence  of  form  and  colour  presented  by  the 
distant  Alps,  raise  the  character  of  the  scene  immeasurably  above  that 
of  most  hill  landscapes,  even  were  those  natural  features  entirely  un- 
assisted by  associations  which,  though  more  sparingly  scattered  than  in 
the  south,  are  sufficient  to  give  light  to  every  leaf,  and  voice  to  every 
wave. 

The  Avalanche  brands  the  Mountain  Top. — There  are  two  kinds  of 
winter  avalanches  ;  the  one,  sheets  of  frozen  snow,  sliding  on  the  sur- 
face of  others.  The  swiftness  of  these,  as  the  clavendier  of  the  Convent 
of  St.  Bernard  told  me,  he  could  compare  to  nothing  but  that  of  a  can- 
non ball  of  equal  size.  The  other  is  a  rolling  mass  of  snow,  accumu- 
lating in  its  descent.  This,  grazing  the  bare  hill  side,  tears  up  its  sur- 
face like  dust,  bringing  away  soil,  rock,  and  vegetation,  as  a  grazing  ball 
tears  flesh  ;  and  leaving  its  withered  path  distinct  on  the  green  hill  side, 
as  if  the  mountain  had  been  branded  with  red-hot  iron.  They  gener- 
ally keep  to  the  same  paths ;  but,  when  the  snow  accumulates,  and 
sends  down  one  the  wrong  way,  it  has  been  known  to  cut  down  a  pine 
forest,  as  a  scythe  mows  grass.  The  tale  of  its  work  is  well  told  by  the 
seared  and  branded  marks  on  the  hill  summits  and  sides. 


68  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

of  the  surrounding  scene,  by  sympathising  with  it ;  the  villa 
must  do  the  same  thing,  by  contrasting  with  it.  The  eye 
feels,  in  a  far  greater  degree,  the  terror  of  the  distant  and 
desolate  peaks,  when  it  passes  down  their  ravined  sides  to 
sloping  and  verdant  hills,  and  is  guided  from  these  to  the  rich 
glow  of  vegetable  life  in  the  low  zones,  and  through  this  glow 
to  the  tall  front  of  some  noble  edifice,  peaceful  even  in  its 
pride.  But  this  contrast  must  not  be  sudden,  or  it  will  be 
startling  and  harsh  ;  and  therefore,  as  we  saw  above,  the  villa 
must  be  placed  where  all  the  severe  features  of  the  scene, 
though  not  concealed,  are  distant,  and  where  there  is  a  grad- 
uation, so  to  speak,  of  impressions,  from  terror  to  loveliness, 
the  one  softened  by  distance,  the  other  elevated  in  its  style  : 
and  the  form  of  the  villa  must  not  be  fantastic  or  angular, 
but  must  be  full  of  variety,  so  tempered  by  simplicity  as  to 
obtain  ease  of  outline  united  with  elevation  of  character  ;  the 
first  being  necessary  for  reasons  before  advanced,  and  the  sec- 
ond, that  the  whole  may  harmonise  with  the  feelings  induced 
by  the  lofty  features  of  the  accompanying  scenery  in  any  hill 
country,  and  yet  more,  on  the  Larian  Lake,  by  the  deep 
memories  and  everlasting  associations  which  haunt  the  still- 
ness of  its  shore.  Of  the  colour  required  by  Italian  land- 
scape we  have  spoken  before,  and  we  shall  see  that,  particu- 
larly in  this  case,  white  or  pale  tones  are  agreeable. 

We  shall  now  proceed  to  the  situation  and  form  of  the  villa. 
As  regards  situation ;  the  villas  of  the  Lago  di  Como  are 
built,  par  preference,  either  on  jutting  promontories  of  low 
crag  covered  with  olives,  or  on  those  parts  of  the  shore  where 
some  mountain  stream  has  carried  out  a  bank  of  alluvium 
into  the  lake.  One  object  proposed  in  this  choice  of  situa- 
tion is,  to  catch  the  breeze  as  it  comes  up  the  main  opening 
of  the  hills,  and  to  avoid  the  reflection  of  the  sun's  rays  from 
the  rocks  of  the  actual  shore  ;  and  another  is,  to  obtain  a 
prospect  up  or  down  the  lake,  and  of  the  hills  on  whose  pro- 
jection the  villa  is  built :  but  the  effect  of  this  choice,  when 
the  building  is  considered  the  object,  is  to  carry  it  exactly 
into  the  place  where  it  ought  to  be,  far  from  the  precipice  and 
dark  mountain,  to  the  border  of  the  bending  bay  and  citron- 


THE  VILLA. 


69 


scented  cape,  where  it  stands  at  once  conspicuous  and  in 
peace.  For  instance,  in  Fig.  27,  (Bellaggio,  Lago  di  Como), 
although  the  eye  falls  suddenly  from  the  crags  above  to  the 
promontory  below,  yet  all  the  sublime  and  severe  features  of 


the  scene  are  kept  in  the  distance,  and  the  villa  itself  is  min- 
gled with  graceful  lines,  and  embosomed  in  rich  vegetation. 
The  promontory  separates  the  Lake  of  Lecco  from  that  of 
Como,  properly  so  called,  and  is  three  miles  from  the  oppo- 


70  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

site  shore,  which  gives  room  enough  for  aerial  perspective. 
So  also  in  Fig.  28. 

We  shall  now  consider  the  form  of  the  villa.  It  is  gen- 
erally the  apex  of  a  series  of  artificial  terraces,  which  con- 
duct through  its  gardens  to  the  water.  These  are  formal  in 
their  design,  but  extensive,  wide,  and  majestic  in  their  slope, 


FIG.  28. 


the  steps  being  generally  about  -J-  ft.  high  and  4^  ft.  wide 
(sometimes  however  much  deeper).  They  are  generally 
supported  by  white  wall,  strengthened  by  unfilled  arches, 
the  angles  being  turned  by  sculptured  pedestals,  surmounted 
by  statues,  or  urns.  Along  the  terraces  are  carried  rows, 
sometimes  of  cypress,  more  frequently  of  orange  or  lemon 
trees,  with  myrtles,  sweet  bay,  and  aloes,  intermingled,  but 
always  with  dark  and  spiry  cypresses  occurring  in  groups  ; 


THE  VILLA.  71 

and  attached  to  these  terraces,  or  to  the  villa  itself,  are  series 
of  arched  grottos  (seen  well  in  Fig.  27),  built  (or  sometimes 
cut  in  the  rock)  for  coolness,  frequently  overhanging  the 
water,  kept  dark  and  fresh,  and  altogether  delicious  to  the 
feelings.  A  good  instance  of  these  united  peculiarities  is  seen 
in  Fig.  28.  (Villa  Somma-Eiva,  Lago  di  Como.)  There  are 
a  few  slight  additions  made  to  the  details  of  the  approach, 
that  it  may  be  a  good  example  of  general  style. 

The  effect  of  these  approaches  is  disputable.  It  is  displeas- 
ing to  many,  from  its  formality  ;  but  we  are  persuaded  that 
it  is  right,  because  it  is  a  national  style,  and  therefore  has  in 
all  probability  due  connexion  with  scene  and  character  ;  and 
this  connexion  we  shall  endeavour  to  prove. 

The  frequent  occurrence  of  the  arch  is  always  delightful  in 
distant  effect,  partly  on  account  of  its  graceful  line,  partly  be- 
cause the  shade  it  casts  is  varied  in  depth,  becoming  deeper 
and  deeper  as  the  grotto  retires,  and  partly  because  it  gives 
great  apparent  elevation  to  the  walls  which  it  supports.  The 
grottos  themselves  are  agreeable  objects  seen  near,  because 
they  give  an  impression  of  coolness  to  the  eye  ;  and  they  echo 
all  sounds  with  great  melody  ;  small  streams  are  often  con- 
ducted through  them,  occasioning  slight  breezes  by  their  mo- 
tion. Then  the  statue  and  the  urn  are  graceful  in  their  out- 
line, classical  in  their  meaning,  and  correct  in  their  position, 
for  where  could  they  be  more  appropriate  than  here  :  the  one 
ministering  to  memory,  and  the  other  to  mourning.  The 
terraces  themselves  are  dignified  in  their  character  (a  neces- 
sary effect,  as  we  saw  above),  and  even  the  formal  rows  of 
trees  are  right  in  this  climate,  for  a  peculiar  reason.  Effect 
is  always  to  be  considered,  in  Italy,  as  if  the  sun  were  always 
to  shine,  for  it  does  nine  days  out  of  ten.  Now  the  shadows 
of  foliage  regularly  disposed,  fall  with  a  grace  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  describe,  running  up  and  down  across  the  marble 
steps,  and  casting  alternate  statues  into  darkness ;  and 
chequering  the  white  walls  with  a  "method  in  their  mad- 
ness," altogether  unattainable  by  loose  grouping  of  trees  ;  and 
therefore,  for  the  sake  of  this  kind  of  shade,  to  which  the  eye, 
as  well  as  the  feeling,  is  attracted,  the  long  row  of  cypresses 


72  THE  POETRY  Of  ARCHITECTURE. 

or  orange  trees  is  allowable.  But  there  is  a  still  more  impor- 
tant reason  for  it,  of  a  directly  contrary  nature  to  that  which 
its  formality  would  seem  to  require.  In  all  beautiful  designs 
of  exterior  descent,  a  certain  regularity  is  necessary  ;  the 
lines  should  be  graceful,  but  they  must  balance  each  other, 
slope  answering  to  slope,  statue  to  statue.  Now  this  mathemat- 
ical regularity  would  hurt  the  eye  excessively  in  the  midst  of 
scenes  of  natural  grace,  were  it  executed  in  bare  stone  ;  but, 
if  we  make  part  of  the  design  itself  foliage,  and  put  in  touches 
of  regular  shade,  alternating  with  the  stone,  whose  distances 
and  darkness  are  as  mathematically  limited  as  the  rest  of  the 
grouping,  but  whose  nature  is  changeful,  and  varied  in  indi- 
vidual forms,  we  have  obtained  a  link  between  nature  and 
art,  a  step  of  transition,  leading  the  feelings  gradually  from 
the  beauty  of  regularity  to  that  of  freedom.  And  this  effect 
would  not  be  obtained,  as  might  at  first  appear,  by  intermin- 
gling trees  of  different  kinds,  at  irregular  distances,  or  wher- 
ever they  choose  to  grow  ;  for  then  the  design  and  the  f oli- 
age  would  be  instantly  separated  by  the  eye,  the  symmetry  of 
the  one  would  be  interrupted,  the  grace  of  the  other  lost ;  the 
nobility  of  the  design  would  not  be  seen,  but  its  formality 
would  be  felt ;  and  the  wildness  of  the  trees  would  be  injuri- 
ous, because  it  would  be  felt  to  be  out  of  place.  On  princi- 
ples of  composition,  therefore,  the  regular  disposition  of  dec- 
orative foliage  is  right,  when  such  foliage  is  mixed  with  archi- 
tecture ;  but  it  requires  great  taste,  and  long  study,  to  design 
this  disposition  properly.  Trees  of  dark  leaf  and  little  colour 
should  be  invariably  used,  for  they  are  to  be  considered,  it 
must  be  remembered,  rather  as  free  touches  of  shade  than  as 
trees.  Take,  for  instance,  the  most  simple  bit  of  design,  such 
as  the  hollow  balustrade  Fig.  29,  and  suppose  that  it  is  found 
to  look  cold  or  raw,  when  executed,  and  to  want  depth.  Then 
put  small  pots,  with  any  dark  shrub,  the  darker  the  better,  at 
fixed  places  behind  them,  at  the  same  distance  as  the  balus- 
trades, or  between  every  two  or  three,  as  shown  in  Fig.  30, 
and  keep  them  cut  down  to  a  certain  height,  and  we  have  im- 
mediate depth  and  increased  ease,  with  undiminished  sym- 
metry. But  the  great  difficulty  is  to  keep  the  thing  within 


THE  VILLA.  73 

proper  limits,  since  too  much  of  it  will  lead  to  paltriness,  as  is 
the  case  in  a  slight  degree  in  Isola  Bella,  on  Lago  Maggiore  ;  and 
not  to  let  it  run  into  small  details :  for,  be  it  remembered, 
that  it  is  only  in  the  majesty  of  art,  in  its  large  and  general 
effects,  that  this  regularity  is  allowable  ;  nothing  but  variety 
should  be  studied  in  detail,  and  therefore  there  can  be  no 
barbarism  greater  than  the  lozenge  borders  and  beds  of  the 
French  garden.  The  scenery  around  must  be  naturally  rich, 


PIG.  29. 


FIG.  30. 

that  its  variety  of  line  may  relieve  the  slight  stiffness  of  the 
architecture  itself  ;  and  the  climate  must  always  be  consid- 
ered ;  for,  as  we  saw,  the  chief  beauty  of  these  flights  of  steps 
depends  upon  the  presence  of  the  sun  ;  and,  if  they  are  to  be 
in  shade  half  the  year,  the  dark  trees  will  only  make  them 
gloomy,  the  grass  will  grow  between  the  stones  of  the  steps, 
black  weeds  will  flicker  from  the  pedestals,  damp  mosses  dis- 
colour the  statues  and  urns,  and  the  whole  will  become  one 
incongruous  ruin,  one  ridiculous  decay.  Besides,  the  very 
dignity  of  its  character,  even  could  it  be  kept  in  proper  order, 
would  be  out  of  place  in  any  country  but  Italy.  Busts  of 


74  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

Virgil  or  Ariosto  would  look  astonished  in  an  English  snow- 
storm ;  statues  of  Apollo  and  Diana  would  be  no  more  divine, 
where  the  laurels  of  the  one  would  be  weak,  and  the  crescent 
of  the  other  would  never  gleam  in  pure  moonlight.  The 
whole  glory  of  the  design  consists  in  its  unison  with  the  dig- 
nity of  the  landscape,  and  with  the  classical  tone  of  the  coun- 
try. Take  it  away  from  its  concomitant  circumstances,  and  in- 
stead of  conducting  the  eye  to  it  by  a  series  of  lofty  and 
dreamy  impressions,  bring  it  through  green  lanes,  or  over 
copse-covered  crags,  as  would  be  the  case  in  England,  and 
the  whole  system  becomes  utterly  and  absolutely  absurd,  ugly 
in  outline,  worse  than  useless  in  application,  unmeaning  in 
design,  and  incongruous  in  association. 

It  seems,  then,  that  in  the  approach  to  the  Italian  villa,  we 
have  discovered  great  nationality  and  great  beauty,  which 
was  more  than  we  could  have  expected,  but  a  beauty,  utterly 
untransferable  from  its  own  settled  habitation.  In  our  next 
paper  we  shall  proceed  to  the  building  itself,  which  will  not 
detain  us  long,  as  it  is  generally  simple  in  its  design,  and 
take  a  general  view  of  villa  architecture  over  Italy. 

We  have  bestowed  considerable  attention  on  this  style  of 
Garden  Architecture,  because  it  has  been  much  abused  by 
persons  of  high  authority,  and  general  good  taste,  who  forgot, 
in  their  love  of  grace  and  ideal  beauty,  the  connexion  with 
surrounding  circumstances  so  manifest  even  in  its  formality. 
Eustace,  we  think,  is  one  of  these  ;  and  although  it  is  an  error 
of  a  kind  he  is  perpetually  committing,  he  is  so  far  right,  that 
this  mannerism  is  frequently  carried  into  excess  even  in  its 
own  peculiar  domain,  then  becoming  disagreeable,  and  is 
always  a  dangerous  style  in  inexperienced  hands.  We  think, 
however,  paradoxical  as  the  opinion  may  appear,  that  every 
one  who  is  a  true  lover  of  Nature,  and  has  been  bred  in  her 
wild  school,  will  be  an  admirer  of  this  symmetrical  designing, 
in  its  place  ;  and  will  feel,  as  often  as  he  contemplates  it,  that 
the  united  effect  of  the  wide  and  noble  steps,  with  the  pure 
water  dashing  over  them  like  heated  crystal,  the  long  shadows 
of  the  cypress  groves,  the  golden  leaves  and  glorious  light  of 
blossom  of  the  glancing  aloes,  the  pale  statues  gleaming  along 


THE   VILLA.  75 

the  heights  in  their  everlasting  death  in  life,  their  motionless 
brows  looking  down  forever  on  the  loveliness  in  which  their 
beings  once  dwelt,  marble  forms  of  more  than  mortal  grace 
lightening  along  the  green  arcades,  amidst  dark  cool  grottoes, 
full  of  the  voice  of  dashing  waters,  and  of  the  breath  of  myrtle 
blossoms,  with  the  blue  of  the  deep  lake  and  the  distant  prec- 
ipice mingling  at  every  opening  with  the  eternal  snows  glow- 
ing in  their  noontide  silence,  is  one  not  unworthy  of  Italy's 
most  noble  remembrances. 

Having  considered  the  propriety  of  the  approach,  it  remains 
for  us  to  investigate  the  nature  of  the  feelings  excited  by  the 
villas  of  the  Lago  di  Como  in  particular,  and  of  Italy  in  gen- 
eral. 

We  mentioned  that  the  bases  of  the  mountains,  bordering 
the  Lake  of  Como  were  chiefly  composed  of  black  marble  ; 
black,  at  least,  when  polished,  and  very  dark  grey  in  its 
general  effect.  This  is  very  finely  stratified  in  beds  varying 
in  thickness  from  an  inch  to  two  or  three  feet ;  and  these 
beds,  taken  of  a  medium  thickness,  form  flat  slabs,  easily 
broken  into  rectangular  fragments,  which,  being  excessively 
compact  in  their  grain,  are  admirably  adapted  for  a  building 
material.  There  is  a  little  pale  limestone  *  among  the  hills  to 
the  south  ;  but  this  marble,  or  primitive  limestone  (for  it  is 
not  highly  crystalline),  is  not  only  more  easy  of  access,  but  a 
more  durable  stone.  Of  this,  consequently,  almost  all  the 
buildings  on  the  lake  shore  are  built ;  and,  therefore,  were 
their  material  unconcealed,  would  be  of  a  dark,  monotonous, 
and  melancholy  grey  tint,  equally  uninteresting  to  the  eye, 
and  depressing  to  the  mind.  To  prevent  this  result,  they  are 

*  Pale  limestone,  with  dolomite.  A  coarse  dolomite  forms  the  mass 
of  mountains  on  the  east  of  Lake  Lecco,  Monte  Campione,  &c.,  and 
part  of  the  other  side,  as  well  as  the  Monte  del  Novo,  above  Cadenabia : 
but  the  bases  of  the  hills,  along  the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Lecco,  and  all 
the  mountains  on  both  sides  of  the  lower  limb  of  Como,  are  black  lime- 
stone. The  whole  northern  half  of  the  lake  is  bordered  by  gneiss 
or  mica  slate,  with  tertiary  deposit  where  torrents  enter  it.  So  that 
the  dolomite  is  only  obtainable  by  ascending  the  hills,  and  incurring 
considerable  expense  of  carriage  ;  while  the  rocks  of  the  shore  split  into 
blocks  of  their  own  accord,  and  are  otherwise  an  excellent  material. 


76  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

covered  with  different  compositions,  sometimes  white,  more 
frequently  cream-colored,  and  of  varying  depth  ;  the  mould- 
ings and  pilasters  being  frequently  of  deeper  tones  than  the 
walls.  The  inside  of  the  grottos,  however,  when  not  cut  in 
the  rock  itself,  are  left  uncovered,  thus  forming  a  strong  con- 
trast with  the  whiteness  outside ;  giving  great  depth,  and 
permitting  weeds  and  flowers  to  root  themselves  on  the 
roughnesses,  and  rock  streams  to  distil  through  the  fissures 
of  the  dark  stones ;  while  all  parts  of  the  building  to  which 
the  eye  is  drawn,  by  their  form  or  details  (except  the  capitals 
of  the  pilasters,  such  as  the  urns,  the  statues,  the  steps,  or 
balustrades),  are  executed  in  very  fine  white  marble,  generally 
from  the  quarries  of  Carrara,  which  supply  quantities  of  frag- 
ments of  the  finest  quality,  which,  nevertheless,  owing  to  their 
want  of  size,  or  to  the  presence  of  conspicuous  veins,  are  un- 
available for  the  higher  purposes  of  sculpture. 

Now,  the  first  question  is,  is  this  very  pale  color  desirable  ? 
It  is  to  be  hoped  so,  or  else  the  whole  of  Italy  must  be  pro- 
nounced full  of  impropriety.  The  first  circumstance  in  its 
favor  is  one  which,  though  connected  only  with  lake  scenery, 
we  shall  notice  at  length,  as  it  is  a  point  of  high  importance 
in  our  own  country.  When  a  small  piece  of  quiet  water 
reposes  in  a  valley,  or  lies  embosomed  among  crags,  its  chief 
beauty  is  derived  from  our  perception  of  crystalline  depth, 
united  with  excessive  slumber.  In  its  limited  surface  we  can- 
not get  the  sublimity  of  extent,  but  we  may  have  the  beauty 
of  peace,  and  the  majesty  of  depth.  The  object  must  there- 
fore be,  to  get  the  eye  off  its  surface,  and  to  draw  it  down,  to 
beguile  it  into  that  fairy  land  underneath,  which  is  more 
beautiful  than  what  it  repeats,  because  it  is  all  full  of  dreams 
unattainable  and  illimitable.  This  can  only  be  done  by  keep- 
ing its  edge  out  of  sight,  and  guiding  the  eye  off  the  land  into 
the  reflection,  as  if  it  were  passing  into  a  mist,  until  it  finds 
itself  swimming  into  the  blue  sky,  with  a  thrill  of  unfathom- 
able falling.  (If  there  be  not  a  touch  of  sky  at  the  bottom, 
the  water  will  be  disgreeably  black,  and  the  clearer^ the  more 
fearful.)  Now,  one  touch  of  white  reflection  of  an  object  at 
the  edge  will  destroy  the  whole  illusion,  for  it  will  come  like 


THE  VILLA.  77 

the  flash  of  light  on  armour,  and  will  show  the  surface,  not  the 
depth  :  it  will  tell  the  eye  whereabouts  it  is ;  will  define  the 
limit  of  the  edge  ;  and  will  turn  the  dream  of  limitless  depth 
into  a  small,  uninteresting,  reposeless  piece  of  water.  In  all 
small  lakes  or  pools,  therefore,  steep  borders  of  dark  crag,  or 
of  thick  foliage,  are  to  be  obtained,  if  possible ;  even  a  shingly 
shore  will  spoil  them :  and  this  was  one  reason,  it  will  be 
remembered,  for  our  admiration  of  the  colour  of  the  Westmore- 
land cottage,  because  it  never  broke  the  repose  of  water  by  its 
reflection.  But  this  principle  applies  only  to  small  pieces  of 
water,  on  which  we  look  down,  as  much  as  along  the  surface. 
As  soon  as  we  get  a  sheet,  even  if  only  a  mile  across,  we  lose 
depth ;  first,  because  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  the  surface 
without  a  breeze  on  some  part  of  it ;  and,  again,  because  we 
look  along  it,  and  get  a  great  deal  of  sky  in  the  reflection, 
which,  when  occupying  too  much  space,  tells  as  mere  flat  light. 
But  we  may  have  the  beauty  of  extent  in  a  very  high  degree  ; 
and  it  is  therefore  desirable  to  know  how  far  the  water  goes, 
that  we  may  have  a  clear  conception  of  its  space.  Now,  its 
border,  at  a  great  distance,  is  always  lost,  unless  it  be  defined 
by  a  very  distinct  line ;  and  such  a  line  is  harsh,  flat,  and 
cutting  on  the  eye.  To  avoid  this,  the  border  itself  should  be 
dark,  as  in  the  other  case,  so  that  there  may  be  no  continuous 
horizontal  line  of  demarcation  ;  but  one  or  two  bright  white 
objects  should  be  set  here  and  there  along  or  near  the  edge  : 
their  reflections  will  flash  on  the  dark  water,  and  will  inform 
the  eye  in  a  moment  of  the  whole  distance  and  transparency 
of  the  surface  it  is  traversing.  When  there  is  a  slight  swell  on 
the  water,  they  will  come  down  in  long,  beautiful,  perpendicu- 
lar lines,  mingling  exquisitely  with  the  streaky  green  of  re- 
flected foliage  ;  when  there  is  none,  they  become  a  distinct 
image  of  the  object  they  repeat,  endowed  with  infinite  repose. 
These  remarks,  true  of  small  lakes  whose  edges  are  green, 
apply  with  far  greater  force  to  sheets  of  water  on  which  the 
eye  passes  over  ten  or  twenty  miles  in  one  long  glance,  and 
the  prevailing  colour  of  whose  borders  is,  as  we  noticed  when 
speaking  of  the  Italian  cottage,  blue.  The  white  reflections 
are  here  excessively  valuable,  giving  space,  brilliancy,  and 


78  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

transparency  ;  and  furnish  one  very  powerful  apology,  even 
did  other  objections  render  an  apology  necessary,  for  the  pale 
tone  of  the  colour  of  the  villas,  whose  reflections,  owing  to 
their  size  and  conspicuous  situations,  always  take  a  considera- 
ble part  in  the  scene,  and  are  therefore  things  to  be  attentively 
considered  in  the  erection  of  such  buildings,  particularly  in  a 
climate  whose  calmness  renders  its  lakes  quiet  for  the  greater 
part  of  the  day.  Nothing,  in  fact,  can  be  more  beautiful  than 
the  intermingling  of  these  bright  lines  with  the  darkness  of 
the  reversed  cypresses  seen  against  the  deep  azure  of  the  dis- 
tant hills  and  the  crystalline  waters  of  the  lake,  of  which  some 
one  aptly  says,  "Deep  within  its  azure  rest,  white  villages 
sleep  silently  ; "  or  than  their  columnar  perspective,  as  vil- 
lage after  village  catches  the  light,  and  strikes  the  image  to 
the  very  quietest  recess  of  the  narrow  water,  and  the  very 
furthest  hollow  of  the  folded  hills. 

From  all  this,  it  appears  that  the  effect  of  the  white  villa  in 
water  is  delightful.  On  land  it  is  quite  as  important,  but 
more  doubtful.  The  first  objection,  which  strikes  us  instantly 
when  we  imagine  such  a  building,  is,  the  want  of  repose,  the 
startling  glare  of  effect,  induced  by  its  unsubdued  tint.  But 
this  objection  does  not  strike  us  when  we  see  the  building  ;  a 
circumstance  which  was  partly  accounted  for  before,  in  speak- 
ing of  the  cottage,  and  which  we  shall  presently  see  further 
cause  not  to  be  surprised  at.  A  more  important  objection  is, 
that  such  whiteness  destroys  a  great  deal  of  venerable  char- 
acter, and  harmonises  ill  with  the  melancholy  tones  of  sur- 
sounding  landscape  :  and  this  requires  detailed  consideration. 
Paleness  of  colour  destroys  the  majesty  of  a  building  ;  first, 
by  hinting  at  a  disguised  and  humble  material ;  and,  secondly, 
by  taking  away  all  appearance  of  age.  We  shall  speak  of  the 
effect  of  the  material  presently  ;  but  the  deprivation  of  appar- 
ent antiquity  is  dependent  in  a  great  degree  on  the  colour, 
and  in  Italy,  where,  as  we  saw  before,  everything  ought  to 
point  to  the  past,  is  a  serious  injury,  though,  for  several  rea- 
sons, not  so  fatal  as  might  be  imagined  ;  for  we  do  not  require, 
in  a  building  raised  as  a  light  summer-house,  wherein  to  while 
away  a  few  pleasure  hours,  the  evidence  of  ancestral  dignity, 


THE  VILLA.  79 

without  which  the  chateau  or  palace  can  possess  hardly  any 
beauty.  We  know  that  it  is  originally  built  rather  as  a  play- 
thing than  as  a  monument ;  as  the  delight  of  an  individual, 
not  the  possession  of  a  race  ;  and  the  very  lightness  and  care- 
lessness of  feeling  with  which  such  a  domicile  is  entered  and 
inhabited  by  its  first  builder  would  demand,  to  sympathise 
and  keep  in  unison  with  them,  not  the  kind  of  building 
adapted  to  excite  the  veneration  of  ages,  but  that  which  can 
most  gaily  minister  to  the  amusement  of  hours.  For  all  men 
desire  to  have  memorials  of  their  actions,  but  none  of  their 
recreations  ;  inasmuch  as  we  only  wish  that  to  be  remembered 
which  others  will  not,  or  cannot,  perform  or  experience  ;  and 
we  know  that  all  men  can  enjoy  recreation  as  much  as  our- 
selves. We  wish  succeeding  generations  to  admire  our  en- 
ergy, but  not  even  to  be  aware  of  our  lassitude  ;  to  know 
when  we  moved,  but  not  when  we  rested ;  how  we  ruled,  not 
how  we  condescended :  and,  therefore,  in  the  case  of  the  tri- 
umphal arch,  or  the  hereditary  palace,  if  we  are  the  builders, 
we  desire  stability ;  if  the  beholders,  we  are  offended  with 
novelty :  but,  in  the  case  of  the  villa,  the  builder  desires  only 
a  correspondence  with  his  humour  ;  the  beholder,  evidence 
of  such  correspondence  ;  for  he  feels  that  the  villa  is  most 
beautiful  when  it  ministers  most  to  pleasure  ;  that  it  cannot 
minister  to  pleasure  without  perpetual  change,  so  as  to  suit 
the  varying  ideas,  and  humours,  and  imaginations  of  its  in- 
habitant ;  and  that  it  cannot  possess  this  light  and  variable 
habit  with  any  appearance  of  antiquity.  And,  for  a  yet  more 
important  reason,  such  appearance  is  not  desirable.  Melan- 
choly, when  it  is  productive  of  pleasure,  is  accompanied 
either  by  loveliness  in  the  object  exciting  it,  or  by  a  feel- 
ing of  pride  in  the  mind  experiencing  it.  Without  one  of 
these,  it  becomes  absolute  pain,  which  all  men  throw  off  as 
soon  as  they  can,  and  suffer  under  as  long  as  their  minds 
are  too  weak  for  the  effort.  Now,  when  it  is  accompanied 
by  loveliness  in  the  object  exciting  it,  it  forms  beauty; 
when  by  a  feeling  of  pride,  it  constitutes  the  pleasure  we  ex- 
perience in  tragedy,  when  we  have  the  pride  of  endurance, 
or  in  contemplating  the  ruin,  or  the  monument,  by  which 


80  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

•we  are  informed  or  reminded  of  the  pride  of  the  past 
Hence,  it  appears  that  age  is  beautiful  only  when  it  is  the  de- 
cay of  glory  or  of  power,  and  memory  only  delightful  when  it 
reposes  upon  pride.*  All  remains,  therefore,  of  what  was 
merely  devoted  to  pleasure  ;  all  evidence  of  lost  enjoyment ; 
all  memorials  of  the  recreation  and  rest  of  the  departed  ;  in 
a  word,  all  desolation  of  delight,  is  productive  of  mere  pain, 
for  there  is  no  feeling  of  exultation  connected  with  it.  Thus, 
in  any  ancient  habitation,  we  pass  with  reverence  and  pleas- 
urable emotion  through  the  ordered  armoury,  where  the 
lances  lie,  with  none  to  wield  ;  through  the  lofty  hall,  where 
the  crested  scutcheons  glow  with  the  honour  of  the  dead :  but 
we  turn  sickly  away  from  the  arbour  which  has  no  hand  to 
tend  it,  and  the  boudoir  which  has  no  life  to  lighten  it,  and 
the  smooth  sward  which  has  no  light  feet  to  dance  on  it.  So 
it  is  in  the  villa  :  the  more  memory  the  more  sorrow  ;  and, 
therefore,  the  less  adaptation  to  its  present  purpose.  But, 
though  cheerful,  it  should  be  ethereal  in  its  expression  : 
"  spirituel "  is  a  good  word,  giving  ideas  of  the  very  highest 
order  of  delight  that  can  be  obtained  in  the  mere  present.  It 
seems,  then,  that  for  all  these  reasons  an  appearance  of  age  is 
not  desirable,  far  less  necessary,  in  the  villa  ;  but  its  existing 
character  must  be  in  unison  with  its  country  ;  and  it  must  ap- 
pear to  be  inhabited  by  one  brought  up  in  that  country,  and 
imbued  with  its  national  feelings.  In  Italy,  especially,  though 
we  can  even  here  dispense  with  one  component  part  of  eleva- 
tion of  character,  age,  we  must  have  all  the  others :  we  must 
have  high  feeling,  beauty  of  form,  and  depth  of  effect,  or  the 
thing  will  be  a  barbarism  ;  the  inhabitant  must  be  an  Italian, 
full  of  imagination  and  emotion  :  a  villa  inhabited  by  an  Eng- 
lishman, no  matter  how  close  its  imitation  of  others,  will  al- 
ways be  preposterous. 
We  find,  therefore,  that  white  is  not  to  be  blamed  in  the 

*  Observe,  we  are  not  speaking  of  emotions  felt  on  remembering  what 
we  ourselves  have  enjoyed,  for  then  the  imagination  is  productive  of 
pleasure  by  replacing  us  in  enjoyment,  but  of  the  feelings  excited  in  the 
indifferent  spectator,  by  the  evident  decay  of  power  or  desolation  of  en- 
joyment, of  which  the  first  ennobles,  the  other  only  harrows,  the  spirit 


THE   VILLA.  81 

villa  for  destroying  its  antiquity  ;  neither  is  it  reprehensible, 
as  harmonising  ill  with  the  surrounding  landscape ;  on  the 
contrary,  it  adds  to  its  brilliancy,  without  taking  away  from 
its  depth  of  tone.  We  shall  consider  it  as  an  element  of  land- 
scape, more  particularly,  when  we  come  to  speak  of  grouping. 

There  remains  only  one  accusation  to  be  answered,  viz., 
that  it  hints  at  a  paltry  and  unsubstantial  material :  and  this 
leads  us  to  the  second  question,  Is  this  material  allowable  ? 
If  it  were  distinctly  felt  by  the  eye  to  be  stucco,  there  could 
be  no  question  about  the  matter,  it  would  be  decidedly  dis- 
agreeable ;  but  all  the  parts  to  which  the  eye  is  attracted  are 
executed  in  marble,  and  the  stucco  merely  forms  the  dead 
flat  of  the  building,  not  a  single  wreath  of  ornament  being 
formed  of  it.  Its  surface  is  smooth  and  bright,  and  altogether 
avoids  what  a  stone  building,  when  not  built  of  large  masses, 
and  uncharged  with  ornament,  always  forces  upon  the  atten- 
tion, the  rectangular  lines  of  the  blocks,  which,  however 
nicely  fitted  they  may  be,  are  "  horrible !  most  horrible ! " 
There  is  also  a  great  deal  of  ease  and  softness  in  the  angular 
lines  of  the  stucco,  which  are  never  sharp  or  harsh,  like  those 
of  stone  ;  and  it  receives  shadows  with  great  beauty,  a  point 
of  infinite  importance  in  this  climate  ;  giving  them  lightness 
and  transparency,  without  any  diminution  of  depth.  It  is  also 
rather  agreeable  to  the  eye,  to  pass  from  the  sharp  carving  of 
the  marble  decorations  to  the  ease  and  smoothness  of  the 
stucco  ;  while  the  utter  want  of  interest  in  those  parts  which 
are  executed  in  it  prevents  the  humility  of  the  material  from 
being  offensive  ;  for  this  passage  of  the  eye  from  the  marble 
to  the  composition  is  managed  with  the  dexterity  of  the  ar- 
tist, who,  that  the  attention  may  be  drawn  to  the  single  point 
of  the  picture  which  is  his  subject,  leaves  the  rest  so  obscured 
and  slightly  painted,  that  the  mind  loses  it  altogether  in  its 
attention  to  the  principal  feature. 

With  all,  however,  that  can  be  alleged  in  extenuation  of  its 
faults,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  stucco  does  take  away  so 
much  of  the  dignity  of  the  building,  that,  unless  we  find 
enough  bestowed  by  its  form  and  details  to  counterbalance, 
and  a  great  deal  more  than  counterbalance,  the  deterioration 


82  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

occasioned  by  tone  and  material,  the  whole  edifice  must  be 
condemned,  as  incongruous  with  the  spirit  of  the  climate,  and 
even  with  the  character  of  its  own  gardens  and  approach.  It 
remains,  therefore,  to  notice  the  details  themselves.  Its  form 
is  simple  to  a  degree  ;  the  roof  generally  quite  flat,  so  as  to 
leave  the  mass  in  the  form  of  a  parallelepiped,  in  general  with- 
out wings  or  adjuncts  of  any  sort.  Villa  Somma-Eiva  (Fig.  28 
in  p.  70),  is  a  good  example  of  this  general  form  and  propor- 
tion, though  it  has  an  arched  passage  on  each  side,  which 
takes  away  from  its  massiness.  This  excessive  weight  of  effect 
would  be  injurious  if  the  building  were  set  by  itself ;  but,  as 
it  always  forms  the  apex  of  a  series  of  complicated  terraces, 
it  both  relieves  them  and  gains  great  dignity  by  its  own  un- 
broken simplicity  of  size.  This  general  effect  of  form  is  not 
injured,  when,  as  is  often  the  case,  an  open  passage  is  left  in 
the  centre  of  the  building,  under  tall  and  well-proportioned 
arches,  supported  by  pilasters  (never  by  columns).  Villa 
Porro,  Lago  di  Como  (Fig.  31),  is  a  good  example  of  this 
method.  The  arches  hardly  ever  exceed  three  in  number,  and 
these  are  all  of  the  same  size,  so  that  the  crowns  of  the  arches 
continue  the  horizontal  lines  of  the  rest  of  the  building. 
Were  the  centre  one  higher  than  the  others,  these  lines  would 
be  interrupted,  and  a  great  deal  of  simplicity  lost.  The  cov- 
ered space  under  these  arches  is  a  delightful,  shaded,  and 
breezy  retreat  in  the  heat  of  the  day  ;  and  the  entrance  doors 
usually  open  into  it,  so  that  a  current  of  cool  air  is  obtainable 
by  throwing  them  open. 

The  building  itself  consists  of  three  floors  :  we  remember 
no  instance  of  a  greater  number,  and  only  one  or  two  of  fewer. 
It  is,  in  general,  crowned  with  a  light  balustrade,  surmounted 
by  statues  at  intervals.  The  windows  of  the  uppermost  floor 
are  usually  square,  often  without  any  architrave.  Those  of 
the  principal  floor  are  surrounded  with  broad  architraves,  but 
are  frequently  destitute  of  frieze  or  cornice.  They  have  usu- 
ally flat  bands  at  the  bottom,  and  their  aperture  is  a  double 
square.  Their  recess  is  very  deep,  so  as  not  to  let  the  sun  fall- 
far  into  the  interior.  The  interval  between  them  is  very  vari- 
able. In  some  of  the  villas  of  highest  pretensions,  such  as 


THE  VILLA*  83 

those  'on  the  banks  of  the  Brenta,  that  of  Isola  Bella,  and 
others,  which  do  not  face  the  south,  it  is  not  much  more 
than  the  breadth  of  the  two  architraves,  so  that  the  rooms 


within  are  filled  with  light.  When  this  is  the  case,  the  win- 
dows have  friezes  and  cornices.  But,  when  the  building  fronts 
the  south,  the  interval  is  often  very  great,  as  in  the  case  of  the 


84  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE!. 

Villa  Porro.  The  ground-floor  windows  are  frequently  set  in 
tall  arches,  supported  on  deeply  engaged  pilasters,  as  in  Fig. 
28,  p.  70  (Somma-Riva).  The  door  is  not  large,  and  never 
entered  by  high  steps,  as  it  generally  opens  on  a  terrace  of 
considerable  height,  or  on  a  wide  landing-place  at  the  head 
of  a.  flight  of  fifty  or  sixty  steps  descending  through  the 
gardens. 

Now,  it  will  be  observed,  that,  in  these  general  forms, 
though  there  is  no  splendor,  there  is  great  dignity.  The  lines 
throughout  are  simple  to  a  degree,  entirely  uninterrupted  by 
decorations  of  any  kind,  so  that  the  beauty  of  their  propor- 
tions is  left  visible  and  evident.  We  shall  see  hereafter  that 
ornament  in  Grecian  architecture,  while,  when  well  managed, 
it  always  adds  to  its  grace,  invariably  takes  away  from  its 
majesty  ;  and  that  these  two  attributes  never  can  exist  together 
in  their  highest  degrees.  By  the  utter  absence  of  decoration, 
therefore,  the  Italian  villa,  possessing,  as  it  usually  does,  great 
beauty  of  proportion,  attains  a  degree  of  elevation  of  character, 
which  impresses  the  mind  in  a  manner  which  it  finds  difficult 
to  account  for  by  any  consideration  of  its  simple  details  or 
moderate  size  ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  lays  so  little  claim 
to  the  attention,  and  is  so  subdued  in  its  character,  that  it  is 
enabled  to  occupy  a  conspicuous  place  in  a  landscape,  without 
any  appearance  of  intrusion.  The  glance  of  the  beholder  rises 
from  the  labyrinth  of  terrace  and  arbour  beneath,  almost 
weariedly  ;  it  meets,  as  it  ascends,  with  a  gradual  increase  of 
bright  marble  and  simple  light,  and  with  a  proportionate  dim- 
inution of  dark  foliage  and  complicated  shadow,  till  it  rests 
finally  on  a  piece  of  simple  brilliancy,  chaste  and  unpretend- 
ing, yet  singularly  dignified ;  and  does  not  find  its  colour  too 
harsh,  because  its  form  is  so  simple  :  for  colour  of  any  kind 
is  only  injurious  when  the  eye  is  too  much  attracted  to  it; 
and,  when  there  is  so  much  quietness  of  detail  as  to  prevent 
this  misfortune,  the  building  will  possess  the  cheerfulness, 
without  losing  the  tranquillity,  and  will  seem  to  have  been 
erected,  and  to  be  inhabited,  by  a  mind  of  that  beautiful  tem- 
perament wherein  modesty  tempers  majesty,  and  gentleness 
mingles  with  rejoicing,  which,  above  all  others,  is  most  suited 


THE  VILLA.  35 

to  the  essence,  and  most  interwoven  with  the  spirit,  of  the 
natural  beauty  whose  peculiar  power  is  invariably  repose. 

So  much  for  its  general  character.  Considered  by  principles 
of  composition,  it  will  also  be  found  beautiful.  Its  prevailing 
lines  are  horizontal  ;  and  every  artist  knows  that,  where  peaks 
of  any  kind  are  in  sight,  the  lines  above  which  they  rise  ought 
to  be  flat.  It  has  not  one  acute  angle  in  all  its  details,  and 
very  few  intersections  of  verticals  with  horizontals  ;  while  all 
that  do  intersect  seem  useful  as  supporting  the  mass.  The 
just  application  of  the  statues  at  the  top  is  more  doubtful,  and 
is  considered  reprehensible  by  several  high  authorities,  who, 
nevertheless,  are  inconsistent  enough  to  let  the  balustrade  pass 
uncalumniated,  though  it  is  objectionable  on  exactly  the  same 
grounds  ;  for,  if  the  statues  suggest  the  enquiry  of  "  What 
are  they  doing  there  ?  "  the  balustrade  compels  its  beholder 
to  ask,  "  whom  it  keeps  from  tumbling  over  ?  "  The  truth  is, 
that  the  balustrade  and  statues  derive  their  origin  from  a 
period,  when  there  was  easy  access  to  the  roof  of  either  temple 
or  villa  ;  (that  there  was  such  access  is  proved  by  a  passage 
in  the  Iphigenia  Taurica,  line  113,  where  Orestes  speaks  of 
getting  up  to  the  triglyphs  of  a  Doric  temple  as  an  easy  mat- 
ter ;)  and  when  the  flat  roofs  were  used,  not,  perhaps,  as  an 
evening  promenade,  as  in  Palestine,  but  as  a  place  of  obser- 
vation, and  occasionally  of  defence.  They  were  composed  of 
large  flat  slabs  of  stone  (/cepa^os*),  peculiarly  adapted  for  walk- 
ing, one  or  two  of  which,  when  taken  up,  left  an  opening  of 
easy  access  into  the  house,  as  in  Luke,  v.  19,  and  were  perpet- 
ually used  in  Greece  as  missile  weapons,  in  the  event  of  a 
hostile  attack  or  sedition  in  the  city,  by  parties  of  old  men, 
women,  and  children,  who  used,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  re- 
tire to  the  roof  as  a  place  of  convenient  defence.  By  such  at- 
tacks from  the  roof  with  the  /cepafios  the  Thebans  were  thrown 


*  In  the  large  buildings,  that  is  :  Ksp&fux;  also  signifies  earthen  tiling, 
and  sometimes  earthenware  in  general,  as  in  Herodotus,  iii.  6.  It  ap- 
pears that  such  tiling  was  frequently  used  in  smaller  edifices.  The 
Greeks  may  have  derived  their  flat  roofs  from  Egypt.  Herodotus  men- 
tions of  the  Labyrinth  of  the  Twelve  Kings,  that  6po<p?j  6s  irdvrov  TOVTUI 
y,  but  not  as  if  the  circumstance  were  in  the  least  extraordinary. 


86  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

into  confusion  in  Platsea.  (Thucyd.,  ii.  4.)  So,  also,  we  find 
the  roof  immediatly  resorted  to  in  the  case  of  the  starving  of 
Pausanias  in  the  Temple  of  Minerva  of  the  Brazen  House,  and 
in  that  of  the  massacre  of  the  aristocratic  party  at  Corcyra 
(Thucyd,,  iv.  48): — '  Aj/a&ures  Se  en-i  TO  re'yos  TOV  OIK^/ACM-OS,  KOL 
SieAovTcs  TTJV  opo^v,  IflaAAov  TO>  K£/>a/xa>.  Now,  where  the  roof 
was  thus  a  place  of  frequent  resort,  there  could  be  no  more  use- 
ful decoration  than  a  balustrade  ;  nor  one  more  appropriate 
or  beautiful,  than  occasional  statues  in  attitudes  of  watchful- 
ness, expectation,  or  observation :  and  even  now,  wherever  the 
roof  is  flat,  we  have  an  idea  of  convenience  and  facility  of  ac- 
cess, which  still  renders  the  balustrade  agreeable,  and  the 
statue  beautiful,  if  well  designed.  It  must  not  be  a  figure  of 
perfect  peace  or  repose,  far  less  should  it  be  in  violent  action  ; 
but  it  should  be  fixed  in  that  quick  startled  stillness,  which 
is  the  result  of  intent  observation  or  expectation,  and  which 
seems  ready  to  start  into  motion  every  instant.  Its  height 
should  be  slightly  colossal,  as  it  is  always  to  be  seen  against 
the  sky;  and  its  draperies  should  not  be  too  heavy,  as  the  eye 
will  always  expect  them  to  be  caught  by  the  wind.  We  shall 
enter  into  this  subject,  however,  more  fully  hereafter.  We  only 
wish  at  present  to  vindicate  from  the  charge  of  impropriety 
one  of  the  chief  features  of  the  Italian  villa.  Its  white  figures, 
always  marble,  remain  entirely  unsullied  by  the  weather,  and 
stand  out  with  great  majesty  against  the  blue  air  behind  them, 
taking  away  from  the  heaviness,  without  destroying  the  sim- 
plicity, of  the  general  form. 

It  seems,  then,  that,  by  its  form  and  details,  the  villa  of  the 
Lago  di  Como  attains  so  high  a  degree  of  elevation  of  char- 
acter, as  not  only  brings  it  into  harmony  of  its  locus,  without 
any  assistance  from  appearance  of  antiquity,  but  may, we  think, 
permit  it  to  dispense  even  with  solidity  of  material,  and  appear 
in  light  summer  stucco,  instead  of  raising  itself  in  imperish- 
able marble.  And  this  conclusion,  which  is  merely  theoret- 
ical, is  verified  by  fact ;  for  we  remember  no  instance,  except 
in  cases  where  poverty  had  overpowered  pretension,  or  decay 
had  turned  rejoicing  into  silence,  in  which  the  lightness  of 
the  material  was  offensive  to  the  feelings ;  in  all  cases,  it  ia 


THE  VILLA.  8? 

agreeable  to  the  eye.  Where  it  is  allowed  to  get  worn,  and 
discoloured,  and  broken,  it  induces  a  wretched  mockery  of 
the  dignified  form  which  it  preserves  ;  but,  as  long  as  it  is  re- 
newed at  proper  periods,  and  watched  over  by  the  eye  of  its 
inhabitant,  it  is  an  excellent  and  easily  managed  medium  of 
effect. 

With  all  the  praise,  however,  which  we  have  bestowed  upon 
it,  we  do  not  say  that  the  villa  of  the  Larian  Lake  is  per- 
fection ;  indeed,  we  cannot  say  so,  until  we  have  compared  it 
with  a  few  other  instances,  chiefly  to  be  found  in  Italy,  on 
whose  soil  we  delay,  as  being  the  native  country  of  the  villa, 
properly  so  called,  and  as  even  yet  being  almost  the  only  spot 
of  Europe  where  any  good  specimens  of  it  are  to  be  found  : 
for  we  do  not  understand  by  the  term  "  villa,"  a  cubic  erec- 
tion, with  one  window  on  each  side  of  a  verdant  door,  and 
three  in  the  second  and  uppermost  story,  such  as  the  word 
suggests  to  the  fertile  imagination  of  ruralising  cheese- 
mongers ;  neither  do  we  understand  the  quiet  and  unpretend- 
ing country  house  of  a  respectable  gentleman  ;  neither  do  we 
understand  such  a  magnificent  mass  of  hereditary  stone  as 
generally  forms  the  autumn  retreat  of  an  English  noble  ;  but 
we  understand  the  light  but  elaborate  summer  habitation, 
raised  however  and  wherever  it  pleases  his  fancy,  by  some  in- 
dividual of  great  wealth  and  influence,  who  can  enrich  it  with 
every  attribute  of  beauty  ;  furnish  it  with  every  appurtenance 
of  pleasure  ;  and  repose  in  it  with  the  dignity  of  a  mind 
trained  to  exertion  or  authority.  Such  a  building  could  not 
exist  in  Greece,  where  every  district  a  mile  and  a  quarter 
square  was  quarrelling  with  all  its  neighbours.  It  could 
exist,  and  did  exist,  in  Italy,  where  the  Roman  power  secured 
tranquillity,  and  the  Roman  constitution  distributed  its 
authority  among  a  great  number  of  individuals,  on  whom, 
while  it  raised  them  to  a  position  of  great  influence,  and,  in 
its  later  times,  of  wealth,  it  did  not  bestow  the  power  of  rais- 
ing palaces  or  private  fortresses.  The  villa  was  their  peculiar 
habitation,  their  only  resource,  and  a  most  agreeable  one ; 
because  the  multitudes  of  the  kingdom  being,  for  a  long 
period,  confined  to  a  narrow  territory,  though  ruling  the 


88  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

•world,  rendered  the  population  of  the  city  so  dense,  as  to 
drive  out  its  higher  ranks  to  the  neighbouring  hamlets  of 
Tibur  and  Tusculum.  In  other  districts  of  Europe  the  villa 
is  not  found,  because  in  very  perfect  monarchies,  as  in  Austria, 
the  power  is  thrown  chiefly  into  the  hands  of  a  few,  who 
build  themselves  palaces,  not  villas  ;  and  in  perfect  republics, 
as  in  Switzerland,  the  power  is  so  split  among  the  multitude, 
that  nobody  can  build  himself  anything.  In  general,  in  king- 
doms of  great  extent,  the  country  house  becomes  the  per- 
manent and  hereditary  habitation ;  and  the  villas  are  all 
crowded  together,  and  form  gingerbread  rows  in  the  environs 
of  the  capital ;  and,  in  France  and  Germany,  the  excessively 
disturbed  state  of  affairs  in  the  middle  ages  compelled  every 
petty  baron  or  noble  to  defend  himself,  and  retaliate  on  his 
neighbours  as  best  he  could,  till  the  villa  was  lost  in  the 
chateau  and  the  fortress  ;  and  men  now  continue  to  build  as 
their  forefathers  built  (and  long  may  they  do  so),  surrounding 
the  domicile  of  pleasure  with  a  moat  and  a  glacis,  and  guarding 
its  garret  windows  with  turrets  and  towers :  while,  in  England, 
the  nobles,  comparatively  few,  and  of  great  power,  inhabit 
palaces,  not  villas ;  and  the  rest  of  the  population  is  chiefly 
crowded  into  cities,  in  the  activity  of  commerce,  or  dispersed 
over  estates  in  that  of  agriculture  ;  leaving  only  one  grade  of 
gentry,  who  have  neither  the  taste  to  desire,  nor  the  power  to 
erect,  the  villa,  properly  so  called. 

We  must  not,  therefore,  be  surprised,  if,  on  leaving  Italy, 
where  the  crowd  of  poverty-stricken  nobility  can  still  repose 
their  pride  in  the  true  villa,  we  find  no  farther  examples  of  it 
worthy  of  consideration,  though  we  hope  to  have  far  greater 
pleasure  in  contemplating  its  substitutes,  the  chateau  and  the 
fortress.  We  must  be  excused,  therefore,  for  devoting  one 
paper  more  to  the  state  of  villa  architecture  in  Italy  ;  after 
which  we  shall  endeavour  to  apply  the  principles  we  shall  have 
deduced  to  the  correction  of  some  abuses  in  the  erection  of 
English  country  houses,  in  cases  where  scenery  would  demand 
beauty  of  design,  and  wealth  permit  finish  of  decoration. 


THE   VILLA. 


L  The  Italian  Villa. 

WE  do  not  think  there  is  any  truth  in  the  aphorism,  now 
BO  frequently  advanced  in  England,  that  the  adaptation  of 
shelter  to  the  corporal  comfort  of  the  human  race  is  the 
original  and  true  end  of  the  art  of  architecture,  properly  so 
called  :  for,  were  such  the  case,  he  would  be  the  most  dis- 
tinguished architect  who  was  best  acquainted  with  the  prop- 
erties of  cement,  with  the  nature  of  stone,  and  the  various 
durability  of  wood.  That  such  knowledge  is  necessary  to  the 
perfect  architect  we  do  not  deny  ;  but  it  is  no  more  the  end 
and  purpose  of  his  application,  than  a  knowledge  of  the  alpha- 
bet is  the  object  of  the  refined  scholar,  or  of  rhythm  of  the 
inspired  poet.  For,  supposing  that  we  were  for  a  moment  to 
consider  that  we  built  a  house  merely  to  be  lived  in,  and  that 
the  whole  bent  of  our  invention,  in  raising  the  edifice,  is  to  be 
directed  to  the  provision  of  comfort  for  the  life  to  be  spent 
therein  ;  supposing  that  we  built  it  with  the  most  perfect  dry- 
ness  and  coolness  of  cellar,  the  most  luxurious  appurtenances 
of  pantry  ;  that  we  build  our  walls  with  the  most  compacted 
strength  of  material,  the  most  studied  economy  of  space  ; 
that  we  leave  not  a  chink  in  the  floor  for  a  breath  of  wind  to 
pass  through,  not  a  hinge  in  the  door,  which,  by  any  possible 
exertion  of  its  irritable  muscles,  could  creak  ;  that  we  elevate 
our  chambers  into  exquisite  coolness,  furnish  them  with  every 
ministry  to  luxury  of  rest,  and  finish  them  with  every  atten- 
tion to  the  maintenance  of  general  health,  as  well  as  the  pre- 
vention of  present  inconvenience  ;  to  do  all  this,  we  must  be 
possessed  of  great  knowledge  and  various  skill ;  let  this  knowl- 
edge and  skill  be  applied  with  the  greatest  energy,  and  what 
have  they  done  ?  Exactly  as  much  as  brute  animals  can  do, 
by  mere  instinct ;  nothing  more  than  bees  and  beavers,  moles 
and  magpies,  ants  and  earwigs,  do  every  day  of  their  lives, 
without  the  slightest  effort  of  reason  ;  we  have  made  ourselves 
superior  as  architects  to  the  most  degraded  animation  of  the 
universe,  only  insomuch  as  we  have  lavished  the  highest  efforts 
of  intellect,  to  do  what  they  have  done  with  the  most  limited 


90  THE  POETRY  Of1  ARCHITECTURE. 

sensations  that  can  constitute  life.  The  mere  preparation  of 
convenience,  therefore,  is  not  architecture  in  which  man  can 
take  pride,  or  ought  to  take  delight ;  but  the  high  and  en- 
nobling art  of  architecture  is,  that  of  giving  to  buildings, 
whose  parts  are  determined  by  necessity,  such  forms  and 
colours  as  shall  delight  the  mind,  by  preparing  it  for  the 
operations  to  which  it  is  to  be  subjected  in  the  building  :  and 
thus,  as  it  is  altogether  to  the  mind  that  the  work  of  the 
architect  is  addressed,  it  is  not  as  a  part  of  his  art,  but  as  a 
limitation  of  its  extent,  that  he  must  be  acquainted  with  the 
minor  principles  of  the  economy  of  domestic  erections.  For 
this  reason,  though  we  shall  notice  every  class  of  edifice,  it 
does  not  come  within  our  proposed  plan,  to  enter  into  any  de- 
tailed consideration  of  the  inferior  buildings  of  each  class, 
which  afford  no  scope  for  the  play  of  the  imagination  by  their 
nature  or  size  ;  but  we  shall  generally  select  the  most  perfect 
and  beautiful  examples,  as  those  in  which  alone  the  architect 
has  the  power  of  fulfilling  the  high  purposes  of  his  art.  In 
the  villa,  however,  some  exception  must  be  made,  inasmuch  as 
it  will  be  useful,  and,  perhaps,  interesting,  to  arrive  at  some 
fixed  conclusions  respecting  the  modern  buildings,  improperly 
called  villas,  raised  by  moderate  wealth,  and  of  limited  size? 
in  which  the  architect  is  compelled  to  produce  his  effect  with- 
out extent  or  decoration.  The  principles  which  we  have 
hitherto  arrived  at,  deduced  as  they  are  from  edifices  of  the 
noblest  character,  will  be  but  of  little  use  to  a  country  gentle- 
man, about  to  insinuate  himself  and  his  habitation  into  a 
quiet  corner  of  our  lovely  country  ;  and,  therefore,  we  must 
glance  at  the  more  humble  homes  of  the  Italian,  preparatory 
to  the  consideration  of  what  will  best  suit  our  own  less  ele- 
vated scenery. 

First,  then,  we  lose  the  terraced  approach,  or,  at  least,  its 
size  and  splendour,  as  these  require  great  wealth  to  erect 
them,  and  perpetual  expense  to  preserve  them.  For  the 
chain  of  terraces  we  find  substituted  a  simple  garden,  some- 
what formally  laid  out ;  but  redeemed  from  the  charge  of' 
meanness  by  the  nobility  and  size  attained  by  most  of  its 
trees ;  the  line  of  immense  cypresses  which  generally  sur- 


THE   VILLA.  91 

rounds  it  in  part,  and  the  luxuriance  of  the  vegetation  of  its 
flowering  shrubs.  It  has  frequently  a  large  entrance  gate, 
well  designed,  but  carelessly  executed  ;  sometimes  singularly 
adorned  with  fragments  of  exquisite  ancient  sculpture,  regular- 
ly introduced,  which  the  spectator  partly  laments,  as  preserved 
in  a  mode  so  incongruous  with  their  ancient  meaning,  and 
partly  rejoices  over,  as  preserved  at  all.  The  grottos  of  the 
superior  garden  are  here  replaced  by  light  ranges  of  arched 
summer-houses,  designed  in  stucco,  and  occasionally  adorned 
in  their  interior  with  fresco  paintings  of  considerable  bright- 
ness and  beauty. 

All  this,  however,  has  very  little  effect  in  introducing  the 
eye  to  the  villa  itself,  owing  to  the  general  want  of  inequality 
of  level  in  the  ground,  so  that  the  main  building  becomes  an 
independent  feature,  instead  of  forming  the  apex  of  a  mass 
of  various  architecture.  Consequently,  the  weight  of  form 
which  in  the  former  case  it  might,  and  even  ought  to,  possess, 
would  here  be  cumbrous,  ugly,  and  improper ;  and  accordingly, 
we  find  it  got  rid  of.  This  is  done,  first  by  the  addition  of 
the  square  tower,  a  feature  which  is  not  allowed  to  break  in 
upon  the  symmetry  of  buildings  of  high  architectural  preten- 
sions ;  but  is  immediately  introduced,  whenever  less  richness 
of  detail,  or  variety  of  approach,  demands  or  admits  of  irregu- 
larity of  form.  It  is  a  constant  and  most  important  feature 
in  Italian  landscape :  sometimes  high  and  apparently  de- 
tached, as  when  it  belongs  to  sacred  edifices ;  sometimes  low 
and  strong,  united  with  the  mass  of  the  fortress,  or  varying 
the  form  of  the  villa.  It  is  always  simple  in  its  design,  flat- 
roofed,  its  corners  being  turned  by  very  slightly  projecting 
pilasters,  which  are  carried  up  the  whole  height  of  the  tower, 
whatever  it  may  be,  without  any  regard  to  proportion,  termi- 
nating in  two  arches  on  each  side,  in  the  villa  most  frequently 
filled  up,  though  their  curve  is  still  distinguished  by  darker 
tint  and  slight  relief.  Two  black  holes  on  each  side,  near  the 
top,  are  very  often  the  only  entrances  by  which  light  or  sun 
can  penetrate.  These  are  seldom  actually  large,  always  pro- 
portionably  small,  and  destitute  of  ornament  or  relief.  The 
forms  of  the  villas  to  which  these  towers  are  attached  ara 


92  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

straggling,  and  varied  by  many  crossing  masses ;  but  the 
great  principle  of  simplicity  is  always  kept  in  view,  everything 
is  square  and  terminated  by  parallel  lines  ;  no  tall  chimneys, 
no  conical  roofs,  no  fantastic  ornaments  are  ever  admitted :  the 
arch  alone  is  allowed  to  relieve  the  stiffness  of  the  general 
effect.  This  is  introduced  frequently,  but  not  in  the  win- 
dows, which  are  either  squares  or  double  squares,  at  great 
distances  from  each  other,  set  deeply  into  the  walls,  and  only 
adorned  with  broad  flat  borders,  as  in  Fig.  32. 
Where  more  light  is  required  they  are  set 
moderately  close,  and  protected  by  an  outer 
line  of  arches,  deep  enough  to  keep  the  noon- 
day sun  from  entering  the  rooms.  These  lines 
of  arches  cast  soft  shadows  along  the  bright 
fronts,  and  are  otherwise  of  great  value.  Their 
effect  is  pretty  well  seen  in  Fig.  33  ;  a  piece  which,  while  it  has 
no  distinguished  beauty,  is  yet  pleasing  by  its  entire  simplicity; 
and  peculiarly  so,  when  we  know  that  simplicity  to  have  been 
chosen  (some  say,  built)  for  its  last  and  lonely  habitation,  by  a 
mind  of  softest  passion  as  of  purest  thought ;  and  to  have 
sheltered  its  silent  old  age  among  the  blue  and  quiet  hills,  till 
it  passed  away  like  a  deep  lost  melody  from  the  earth,  leaving  a 
light  of  peace  about  the  grey  tomb  at  which  the  steps  of  those 
who  pass  by  always  falter,  and  around  this  deserted  and  decay- 
ing, and  calm  habitation  of  the  thoughts  of  the  departed ;  Pe- 
trarch's at  Arqua.  A  more  familiar  instance  of  the  application 
of  these  arches  is  the  villa  of  Mecsenas  at  Tivoli,  though  it 
is  improperly  styled  a  villa,  being  pretty  well  known  to  have 
been  nothing  but  stables. 

The  buttress  is  the  only  remaining  point  worthy  of  notice. 
It  prevails  to  a  considerable  extent  among  the  villas  of  the 
south,  being  always  broad  and  tall,  and  occasionally  so  fre- 
quent as  to  give  the  building,  viewed  laterally,  a  pyramidal 
and  cumbrous  effect.  The  most  usual  form  is  that  of  a 
simple  sloped  mass,  terminating  in  the  wall,  without  the 
slightest  finishing,  and  rising  at  an  angle  of  about  84°.  Some- 
times it  is  perpendicular,  sloped  at  the  top  into  the  wall ;  but 
it  never  has  steps  of  increasing  projection  as  it  goes  down. 


FIG.  88. 


94:  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

By  observing  the  occurrence  of  these  buttresses,  an  architect, 
who  knew  nothing  of  geology,  might  accurately  determine 
the  points  of  most  energetic  volcanic  action  in  Italy  ;  for  their 
use  is  to  protect  the  building  from  the  injuries  of  earthquakes, 
the  Italian  having  far  too  much  good  taste  to  use  them, 
except  in  cases  of  extreme  necessity.  Thus,  they  are  never 
found  in  North  Italy,  even  in  the  fortresses.  They  begin 
to  occur  among  the  Apennines,  south  of  Florence  ;  they  be- 
come more  and  more  frequent  and  massy  towards  Rome ; 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Naples  they  are  huge  and  multitudi- 
nous, even  the  walls  themselves  being  sometimes  sloped  ;  and 
the  same  state  of  things  continues  as  we  go  south,  on  the 
coasts  of  Calabria  and  Sicily.  Now,  these  buttresses  present 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  and  striking  instances  of  the 
beauty  of  adaptation  of  style  to  locality  and  peculiarity  of 
circumstance,  that  can  be  met  with  in  the  whole  range  of 
architectural  investigation.  Taken  in  the  abstract,  they  are 
utterly  detestable,  formal,  clumsy,  and  apparently  unneces- 
sary. Their  builder  thinks  so  himself:  he  hates  them  as 
things  to  be  looked  at,  though  he  erects  them  as  things  to  be 
depended  upon.  He  has  no  idea  that  there  is  any  propriety 
in  their  presence,  though  he  knows  perfectly  well  that  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  necessity  ;  and,  therefore,  he  builds  them. 
Where  ?  On  rocks  whose  sides  are  one  mass  of  buttresses, 
of  precisely  the  same  form  ;  on  rocks  which  are  cut  and 
cloven  by  basalt  and  lava  dykes  of  every  size,  and  which,  be- 
ing themselves  secondary,  wear  away  gradually  by  exposure 
to  the  atmosphere,  leaving  the  intersecting  dykes  standing 
out  in  solid  and  vertical  walls,  from  the  faces  of  their  preci- 
pices. The  eye  passes  over  heaps  of  scoriae  and  sloping 
banks  of  ashes,  over  the  huge  ruins  of  more  ancient  masses, 
till  it  trembles  for  the  fate  of  the  crags  still  standing  round  ; 
but  it  finds  them  ribbed  with  basalt  like  bones,  buttresses 
with  a  thousand  lava  walls,  propped  upon  pedestals  and  pyra- 
mids of  iron,  which  the  pant  and  the  pulse  of  the  earthquake 
itself  can  scarcely  move,  for  they  are  its  own  work  ;  it  climbs 
up  to  their  summits,  and  there  it  finds  the  work  of  man  ;  but 
it  is  no  puny  domicile,  no  eggshell  imagination,  it  is  in  a  con- 


THE   VILLA,  95 

tinuation  of  the  mountain  itself,  inclined  at  the  same  slope, 
ribbed  in  the  same  manner,  protected  by  the  same  means 
against  the  same  danger  ;  not,  indeed,  filling  the  eye  with  de- 
light, but,  which  is  of  more  importance,  freeing  it  from  fear 
and  beautifully  corresponding  with  the  prevalent  lines  around 
it,  which  a  less  massive  form  would  have  rendered,  in  some 
cases,  particularly  about  Etna,  even  ghastly.  Even  in  the 
lovely  and  luxuriant  views  from  Capo  di  Monte,'  and  the 
heights  to  the  east  of  Naples,  the  spectator  looks  over  a  series 
of  volcanic  eminences,  generally,  indeed,  covered  with  rich 
eerdure,  but  starting  out  here  and  there  in  grey  and  worn 
walls,  fixed  at  a  regular  slope,  and  breaking  away  into  masses 
more  and  more  rugged  towards  Vesuvius,  till  the  eye  gets 
thoroughly  habituated  to  their  fortress-like  outlines.  Through- 
out the  whole  of  this  broken  country,  and,  on  the  summits  of 
these  volcanic  cones,  rise  innumerable  villas ;  but  they  do  not 
offend  us,  as  we  should  have  expected,  by  their  attestation  of 
cheerfulness  of  life  amidst  the  wrecks  left  by  destructive 
operation,  nor  hurt  the  eye  by  non-assimilation  with  the 
immediate  features  of  the  landscape  :  but  they  seem  to  rise 
prepared  and  adapted  for  resistance  to,  and  endurance  of,  the 
circumstances  of  their  position  ;  to  be  inhabited  by  beings  of 
energy  and  force  sufficient  to  decree  and  to  carry  on  a  steady 
struggle  with  opposing  elements,  and  of  taste  and  feeling 
sufficient  to  proportion  the  form  of  the  walls  of  even  to  the 
clefts  in  the  flanks  of  the  volcano,  and  to  prevent  the  exulta- 
tation  and  the  lightness  of  transitory  life  from  startling,  like 
a  mockery,  the  eternal  remains  of  disguised  desolation. 

We  have  always  considered  these  circumstances  as  most  re- 
markable proofs  of  the  perfect  dependence  of  architecture  on 
its  situation,  and  of  the  utter  impossibility  of  judging  of  the 
beauty  of  any  building  in  the  abstract :  and  we  would  also 
lay  much  stress  upon  them,  as  showing  with  what  boldness 
the  designer  may  introduce  into  his  building,  undisguised, 
such  parts  as  local  circumstances  render  desirable  ;  for  there 
will  invariably  be  something  in  the  nature  of  that  which 
causes  their  necessity,  which  will  endow  them  with  beauty. 

These,  then,  are  the  principal  features  of  the  Italian  villa, 


96  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

modifications  of  which,  of  course  more  or  less  dignified  in 
size,  material,  or  decoration,  in  proportion  to  the  power  and 
possessions  of  their  proprietor,  may  be  considered  as  compos- 
ing every  building  of  that  class  in  Italy.  A  few  remarks  on 
their  general  effect  will  enable  us  to  conclude  the  subject. 

We  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to  see  the  horizontal 
lines  and  simple  forms  which,  as  we  have  observed,  still  prevail 
among  the  Ausonian  villas,  used  with  the  greatest  dexterity, 
and  the  noblest  effect,  in  the  compositions  of  Claude,  Salva- 
tor,  and  Poussin  ;  and  so  habituated  to  consider  those  com- 
positions as  perfect  models  of  the  beautiful,  as  well  as  the 
pure  in  taste  ;  that  it  is  difficult  to  divest  ourselves  of  preju- 
dice, in  the  contemplation  of  the  sources  from  which  those 
masters  received  their  education,  their  feeling,  and  their  sub- 
jects. We  would  hope,  however,  and  we  think  it  may  be 
proved,  that  in  this  case  principle  assists  and  encourages 
prejudice.  First,  referring  only  to  the  gratification  afforded 
to  the  eye  which  we  know  to  depend  upon  fixed  mathematical 
principles,  though  those  principles  are  not  always  developed, 
it  is  to  be  observed,  that  country  is  always  most  beautiful 
when  it  is  made  up  of  curves,  and  that  one  of  the  chief  char- 
acters of  Ausonian  landscape  is,  the  perfection  of  its  curva- 
tures, induced  by  the  gradual  undulation  of  promontories  into 
the  plains.  In  suiting  architecture  to  such  a  country,  that 
building  which  least  interrupts  the  curve  on  which  it  is  placed 
will  be  felt  to  be  most  delightful  to  the  eye.  Let  us  take 
then  the  simple  form  abed,  interrupting  the  curve  c  e. 
Now,  the  eye  will  always  continue  the  principal  lines  of  such 

an  object  for  itself,  until  they 
cut  the  main  curve  ;  that  is, 
it  will  carry  on  a  b  to  e,  and 
the  total  effect  of  the  inter- 
ruption  will  be  that  of  the 
form  c  d  e.  Had  the  line  b 
.  34.  d  been  nearer  a  c,  the  effect 

would  have  been  just  the  same.  Now,  every  curve  may  be 
considered  as  composed  of  an  infinite  number  of  lines  at 
right  angles  to  each  other,  as  m  n  is  made  up  of  op,  p  q,  &c. 


THE   VILLA.  97 

(Fig.  34),  whose  ratio  to  each  other  varies  with  the  direction 
of  the  curve.  Then,  if  the  right  lines  which  form  the  curve 
at  c  (Fig.  35)  be  increased,  we  have  the  figure  c  d  e,  that  is, 
the  apparent  interruption  of  the  curve 
is  an  increased  part  of  the  curve  itself. 
To  the  mathematical  reader  we  can  ex- 
plain our  meaning  more  clearly,  by 
pointing  out  that,  taking  c  for  our  ori-^ 
gin,  we  have  ac,ae,  for  the  co-ordinates  FlQ- 35- 

of  e,  and  that,  therefore,  their  ratio  is  the  equation  to  the  curve. 
Whence  it  appears,  that,  when  any  curve  is  broken  in  upon 
by  a  building  composed  of  simple  vertical  and  horizontal  lines, 
the  eye  is  furnished,  by  the  interruption,  with  the  equation 
to  that  part  of  the  curve  which  is  interrupted.  If,  instead  of 
square  forms  we  take  obliquity,  as  r  s  t  (Fig.  36),  we  have  one 
line,  s  t,  an  absolute  break,  and  the  other,  r 
s,  in  false  proportion.  If  we  take  another 
curve,  we  have  an  infinite  number  of  lines, 
only  two  of  which  are  where  they  ought  to  be.  Pra- 

And  this  is  the  true  reason  for  the  constant  introduction  of 
features  which  appear  to  be  somewhat  formal,  into  the  most  per- 
fect imaginations  of  the  old  masters,  and  the  true  cause  of  the  ex- 
treme beauty  of  the  groups  formed  by  Italian  villages  in  general. 
Thus  much  for  the  mere  effect  on  the  eye.  Of  correspond- 
ence with  national  character,  we  have  shown  that  we  must 
not  be  disappointed,  if  we  find  little  in  the  villa.  The  unfre- 
quency  of  windows  in  the  body  of  the  building  is  partly  at- 
tributed to  the  climate  ;  but  the  total  exclusion  of  light  from 
some  parts,  as  the  base  of  the  central  tower,  carries  our 
thoughts  back  to  the  ancient  system  of  Italian  life,  when 
every  man's  home  had  its  dark,  secret  places,  the  abodes  of  his 
worst  passions  ;  whose  shadows  were  alone  intrusted  with  the 
motion  of  his  thoughts  ;  whose  walls  became  the  whited  sep- 
ulchres of  crime  ;  whose  echoes  were  never  stirred  except  by 
such  words  as  they  dared  not  repeat ;  *  from  which  the  rod 

*  Shelley  has  caught  the  feeling  finely  : — "  The  house  is  penetrated  to 
its  corners  by  the  peeping  insolence  of  the  day.     When  the  time  comes 
the  crickets  shall  not  see  me." — Cettci. 
7 


98  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

of  power,  or  the  dagger  of  passion,  came  forth  invisible  ;  be- 
fore whose  stillness  princes  grew  pale,  as  their  fates  were 
prophesied  or  fulfilled  by  the  horoscope  or  the  hemlock  ;  and 
nations,  as  the  whisper  of  anarchy  or  of  heresy  was  avenged 
by  the  opening  of  the  low  doors,  through  which  those  who 
entered  returned  not. 

The  mind  of  the  Italian,  sweet  and  smiling  in  its  opera- 
tions, deep  and  silent  in  its  emotions,  was  thus,  in  some  de- 
gree, typified  by  those  abodes  into  which  he  was  wont  to 
retire  from  the  tumult  and  wrath  of  life,  to  cherish  or  to  grat 
ify  the  passions  which  its  struggles  had  excited ;  abodes 
which  now  gleam  brightly  and  purely  among  the  azure  moun- 
tains, and  by  the  sapphire  sea,  but  whose  stones  are  dropped 
with  blood  ;  whose  vaults  are  black  with  the  memory  of  guilt 
and  grief  unpunished  and  unavenged,  and  by  whose  walls  the 
traveller  hastens  fearfully,  when  the  sun  has  set,  lest  he  should 
hear,  awakening  again  through  the  horror  of  their  chambers, 
the  faint  wail  of  the  children  of  Ugolino,  the  ominous  alarm 
of  Bonatti,  or  the  long  low  cry  of  her  who  perished  at  Coil- 
Alto. 

Oxford,  July,  1838. 

IL   The  Lowland  Villa. — England. 

ALTHOUGH,  as  we  have  frequently  observed,  our  chief  object 
in  these  papers  is,  to  discover  the  connexion  existing  between 
national  architecture  and  character,  and,  therefore,  is  one  lead- 
ing us  rather  to  the  investigation  of  what  is,  than  of  what 
ought  to  be,  we  yet  consider  that  the  subject  would  be  imper- 
fectly treated,  if  we  did  not,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  consid- 
eration of  each  particular  rank  of  building,  endeavour  to  apply 
such  principles  as  may  have  been  demonstrated  to  the  archi- 
tecture of  our  country,  and  to  discover  the  beau  ideal  of  Eng- 
lish character,  which  should  be  preserved  through  all  the 
decorations  which  the  builder  may  desire,  and  through  every 
variety  which  fancy  may  suggest.  There  never  was,  and 
never  can  be,  a  universal  beau  ideal  in  architecture,  and  the 
arrival  at  all  local  models  of  beauty  would  be  the  task  of  ages; 


THE   VILLA.  99 

but  we  can  always,  in  some  degree,  determine  those  of  our 
own  lovely  country.  We  cannot,  however,  in  the  present  case, 
pass  from  the  contemplation  of  the  villa  of  a  totally  different 
climate,  to  the  investigation  of  what  is  beautiful  here,  with- 
out the  slightest  reference  to  styles  now,  or  formerly,  adopted 
for  our  own  "  villas,"  if  such  they  are  to  be  called  ;  and,  there- 
fore, it  will  be  necessary  to  devote  a  short  time  to  the  observ- 
ance of  the  peculiarities  of  such  styles,  if  we  possess  them, 
or,  if  not,  of  the  causes  of  their  absence. 

We  have  therefore  headed  this  paper,  "  The  Villa,  England ; " 
awakening,  without  doubt,  a  different  idea  in  the  mind  of 
every  one  who  reads  the  words.  Some,  accustomed  to  the  ap- 
pearances of  metropolitan  villas,  will  think  of  brick  buildings, 
with  infinite  appurtenances  of  black-nicked  chimney-pots,  and 
plastered  fronts,  agreeably  varied  with  graceful  cracks  and  un- 
dulatory  shades  of  pink,  brown,  and  green,  communicated  to 
the  cement  by  smoky  showers.  Others  will  imagine  large, 
square,  many-windowed  masses  of  white,  set  with  careful 
choice  of  situation,  exactly  where  they  will  spoil  the  landscape 
to  such  a  conspicuous  degree,  as  to  compel  the  gentlemen 
travelling  on  the  outside  of  the  mail  to  enquire  of  the  guard, 
with  great  eagerness,  "  whose  place  that  is  ; "  and  to  enable 
the  guard  to  reply,  with  great  distinctness,  that  it  belongs  to 

Squire ,  to  the  infinite  gratification  of  Squire ,  and 

the  still  more  infinite  edification  of  the  gentleman  on  the  out- 
side of  the  mail.  Others  will  remember  masses  of  very  red 
brick,  groined  with  stone  ;  with  columnar  porticoes,  about 
one-third  of  the  height  of  the  building,  and  two  niches,  with 
remarkable-looking  heads  and  bag-wigs  in  them,  on  each  side ; 
and  two  teapots,  with  a  pocket-handkerchief  hanging  over 
each  (described  to  the  astonished  spectators  as  "Grecian 
urns"),  located  upon  the  roof,  just  under  the  chimneys. 
Others  will  go  back  to  the  range  of  Elizabethan  gables  ;  but 
none  will  have  any  idea  of  a  fixed  character,  stamped  on  a 
class  of  national  edifices.  This  is  very  melancholy  and  very 
discouraging  ;  the  more  so,  as  it  is  not  without  cause.  In  the 
first  place,  Britain  unites  in  itself,  so  many  geological  forma- 
tions, each  giving  a  peculiar  character  to  the  country  which  it 


100  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

composes,  that  there  is  hardly  a  district  five  miles  broad, 
which  preserves  the  same  features  of  landscape  through  its 
whole  width.*  If,  for  example,  six  foreigners  were  to  land 
severally  at  Glasgow,  at  Aberystwith,  at  Falmouth,  at  Brigh- 
ton, at  Yarmouth  and  at  Newcastle,  and  to  confine  their  inves- 
tigations to  the  country  within  twenty  miles  of  them,  what 
different  impressions  would  they  receive  of  British  landscape  ! 
If,  therefore,  there  be  as  many  forms  of  edifice  as  there  are 
peculiarities  of  situation,  we  can  have  no  national  style  ;  and, 
if  we  abandon  the  idea  of  a  correspondence  with  situation, 
we  lose  the  only  criterion  capable  of  forming  a  national  style,  f 
Another  cause  to  be  noticed  is,  the  peculiar  independence 

*  Length  is  another  thing :  we  might  divide  England  into  strips  of 
country,  running  southwest  and  northeast,  which  would  be  composed 
of  the  same  rock,  and,  therefore,  would  present  the  same  character 
throughout  the  whole  of  their  length.  Almost  all  our  great  roads  cut 
these  transversely,  and,  therefore,  seldom  remain  for  ten  miles  together 
on  the  same  beds. 

f  It  is  thus  that  we  find  the  most  perfect  schools  of  architecture  have 
arisen  in  districts  whose  character  is  unchanging.  Looking  to  Egypt 
first,  we  find  a  climate  inducing  a  perpetual  state  of  heavy  feverish  ex- 
citement, fostered  by  great  magnificence  of  natural  phenomena,  and  in- 
creased by  the  general  custom  of  exposing  the  head  continually  to  the 
sun  (Herod.  Thalia,  xii.)  ;  so  that,  as  in  a  dreaming  fever,  we  imagine 
distorted  creatures  and  countenances  moving  and  living  in  the  quiet  ob- 
jects of  the  chamber.  The  Egyptian  endowed  all  existence  with  dis- 
torted animation ;  turned  dogs  into  deities,  and  leeks  into  lightning- 
darters  ;  then  gradually  invested  the  blank  granite  with  sculptured 
mystery,  designed  in  superstition,  and  adored  in  disease  ;  and  then  such 
masses  of  architecture  arose  as,  in  delirium,  we  feel  crushing  down 
upon  us  with  eternal  weight,  and  see  extending  far  into  the  blackness 
above  ;  huge  and  shapeless  columns  of  colossal  life  ;  immense  and  im 
measurable  avenues  of  mountain  stone.  This  was  a  perfect,  that  is,  a 
marked,  enduring,  and  decided  school  of  architecture,  induced  by  an 
unchanging  and  peculiar  character  of  climate.  Then,  in  the  purer  air, 
and  among  the  more  refined  energies  of  Greece,  architecture  rose  into 
a  more  studied  beauty,  equally  perfect  in  its  school,  because  fostered  in 
a  district  not  50  miles  square,  and  in  its  dependent  isles  and  colonies, 
all  of  which  were  under  the  same  air,  and  partook  of  the  same  features 
of  landscape.  In  Rome,  it  became  less  perfect,  because  more  imitative 
than  indigenous,  and  corrupted  by  the  travelling,  and  conquering,  and 
stealing  ambition  of  the  Roman ;  yet  still  a  school  of  architecture,  be- 


THE   VILLA.  101 

of  the  Englishman's  disposition  ;  a  feeling  which  prompts  him 
to  suit  his  own  humour,  rather  than  fall  in  with  the  prevailing 
cast  of  social  sentiment,  or  of  natural  beauty  and  expression  ; 
and  which,  therefore,  there  being  much  obstinate  originality 
in  his  mind,  produces  strange  varieties  of  dwelling,  frequently 
rendered  still  more  preposterous  by  his  love  of  display ;  a  love 
universally  felt  in  England,  and  often  absurdly  indulged. 
Wealth  is  worshipped  in  France,  as  the  means  of  purchasing 
pleasure  ;  in  Italy,  as  an  instrument  of  power  ;  in  England,  as 
a  means  "of  showing  off."  It  would  be  a  very  great  sacrifice 
indeed,  in  an  Englishman  of  the  average  stamp,  to  put  his 
villa  out  of  the  way,  where  nobody  would  ever  see  it,  or  think 
of  him :  it  is  his  ambition  to  hear  every  one  exclaiming,  "  What 
a  pretty  place  !  whose  can  it  be  ?  "  and  he  cares  very  little 
about  the  peace  which  he  has  disturbed,  or  the  repose  which 
he  has  interrupted  ;  though  even  while  he  thus  pushes  him- 
self into  the  way,  he  keeps  an  air  of  sulky  retirement,  of 
hedgehog  independence,  about  his  house,  which  takes  away 
any  idea  of  sociability  or  good  humour,  which  might  other- 
wise have  been  suggested  by  his  choice  of  situation.  But,  in 
spite  of  all  these  unfortunate  circumstances,  there  are  some 
distinctive  features  in  our  English  country  houses,  which  are 
well  worth  a  little  attention.  First,  in  the  approach,  we  have 
one  component  part  of  effect,  which  may  be  called  peculiarly 
our  own,  and  which  requires  much  study  before  it  can  be 
managed  well, — the  avenue.  It  is  true,  that  we  meet  with 
noble  lines  of  timber  trees  cresting  some  of  the  larger  bastions 
of  Continental  fortified  cities  ;  we  see  interminable  regiments 
of  mistletoed  apple  trees  flanking  the  carriage  road  ;  and  oc- 
casionally we  approach  a  turreted  chateau*  by  a  broad  way, 
"  edged  with  poplar  pale."  But,  allowing  all  this,  the  legiti- 

cause  the  whole  of  Italy  presented  the  same  peculiarities  of  scene.  So 
with  the  Spanish  and  Moresco  schools,  and  many  others  ;  passing  over 
the  Gothic,  which,  though  we  hope  hereafter  to  show  it  to  be  no  excep- 
tion to  the  rule,  involves  too  many  complicated  questions  to  be  now 
brought  forward  as  a  proof  of  it. 

*  Or  a  city.  Any  one  who  remembers  entering  Carlsruhe  from  the 
north,  by  the  two  miles  of  poplar  avenue,  remembers  entering  the  most 
soulless  of  all  cities,  by  the  most  lifeless  of  all  entrances. 


102  THE  POETRY  Off  ARCHITECTURE. 

mate  glory  of  the  perfect  avenue  is  ours  still,  as  will  appear 
by  a  little  consideration  of  the  elements  which  constitute  its 
beauty.  The  original  idea  was  given  by  the  opening  of  the 
tangled  glades  in  our  most  ancient  forests.  It  is  rather  a 
curious  circumstance,  that,  in  those  woods  whose  decay  has 
been  chiefly  instrumental  in  forming  the  bog  districts  of  Ire- 
land, the  trees  have,  in  general,  been  planted  in  symmetrical 
rows,  at  distances  of  about  twenty  feet  apart.  If  the  arrange- 
ment of  our  later  woods  be  not  quite  so  formal,  they,  at  least, 
present  frequent  openings,  carpeted  with  green  sward,  and 
edged  with  various  foliage,  which  the  architect  (for  so  may  the 
designer  of  the  avenue  be  entitled)  should  do  little  more  than 
reduce  to  symmetry  and  place  in  position,  preserving,  as  much 
as  possible,  the  manner  and  the  proportions  of  nature.  The 
avenue,  therefore,  must  not  be  too  long.  It  is  quite  a  mistake, 
to  suppose  that  there  is  sublimity  in  a  monotonous  length  of 
line,  unless,  indeed,  it  be  carried  to  an  extent  generally  im- 
possible, as  in  the  case  of  the  long  walk  at  Windsor.  From 
three  to  four  hundred  yards  is  a  length  which  will  display  the 
elevation  well,  and  will  not  become  tiresome  from  continued 
monotony.  The  kind  of  tree  must,  of  course,  be  regulated  by 
circumstances ;  but  the  foliage  must  be  unequally  disposed, 
so  as  to  let  in  passages  of  light  across  the  path,  and  cause  the 
motion  of  any  object  along  it  to  change,  like  an  undulating 
melody,  from  darkness  to  light.  It  should  meet  at  the  top, 
so  as  to  cause  twilight,  but  not  obscurity,  and  the  idea  of  a 
vaulted  roof,  without  rigidity.  The  ground  should  be  green, 
so  that  the  sun-light  may  tell  with  force  wherever  it  strikes. 
Now,  this  kind  of  rich  and  shadowy  vista  is  found  in  its  per- 
fection only  in  England  :  it  is  an  attribute  of  green  country  ; 
it  is  associated  with  all  our  memories  of  forest  freedom,  of  our 
wood  rangers,  and  yeomen  with  the  "  doublets  of  the  Lincoln 
green;"  with  our  pride  of  ancient  archers,  whose  art  was  fos- 
tered in  such  long  and  breezeless  glades ;  with  our  thoughts 
of  the  merry  chases  of  our  kingly  companies,  when  the  dewy 
antlers  sparkled  down  the  intertwined  paths  of  the  windless 
woods,  at  the  morning  echo  of  the  hunter's  horn  ;  with  all,  in 
fact,  that  once  contributed  to  give  our  land  its  ancient  name 


THE   VILLA.  103 

of  "  merry  "  England  ;  a  name  which,  in  this  age  of  steam  and 
iron,  it  will  have  some  difficulty  in  keeping. 

This,  then,  is  the  first  feature  we  would  direct  attention  to, 
as  characteristic,  in  the  English  villa  :  and  be  it  remembered, 
that  we  are  not  speaking  of  the  immense  lines  of  foliage  which 
guide  the  eye  to  some  of  our  English  palaces,  for  those  are 
rather  the  adjuncts  of  the  park  than  the  approach  to  the 
building ;  but  of  the  more  laconic  avenue,  with  the  two 
crested  columns  and  the  iron  gate  at  its  entrance,  leading  the 
eye,  in  the  space  of  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  to  the  gables  of 
its  grey  mansion.  A  good  instance  of  this  approach  may  be 
found  at  Petersham,  by  following  the  right  side  of  the  Thames 
for  about  half  a  mile  from  Richmond  Hill ;  though  the  house, 
which,  in  this  case,  is  approached  by  a  noble  avenue,  is  much 
to  be  reprehended,  as  a  bad  mixture  of  imitation  of  the  Italian 
with  corrupt  Elizabethan  ;  though  it  is  somewhat  instructive, 
as  showing  the  ridiculous  effect  of  statues  out  of  doors  in  a 
climate  like  ours. 

And  now  that  we  have  pointed  out  the  kind  of  approach 
most  peculiarly  English,  that  approach  will  guide  us  to  the 
only  style  of  villa  architecture  which  can  be  called  English, — 
the  Elizabethan,  and  its  varieties  ;  a  style  fantastic  in  its  de- 
tails, and  capable  of  being  subjected  to  no  rule,  but,  as  we 
think,  well  adapted  for  the  scenery  in  which  it  arose.  We 
allude  not  only  to  the  pure  Elizabethan,  but  even  to  the 
strange  mixtures  of  classical  ornaments  with  Gothic  forms, 
which  we  find  prevailing  in  the  sixteenth  century.  In  the 
most  simple  form,  we  have  a  building  extending  around  three 
sides  of  a  court,  and,  in  the  larger  halls,  round  several 
interior  courts,  terminating  in  sharply  gabled  fronts,  with 
broad  oriels  divided  into  very  narrow  lights  by  channeled 
mullions,  without  decoration  of  any  kind ;  the  roof  relieved 
by  projecting  dormer  windows,  whose  lights  are  generally 
divided  into  three,  terminating  in  very  flat  arches  without 
cusps,  the  intermediate  edge  of  the  roof  being  battlemented. 
Then  we  find  wreaths  of  ornament  introduced  at  the  base  of 
the  oriels  ;*  ranges  of  short  columns,  the  base  of  one  upon 
*  As  in  a  beautiful  example  in  Brasen-nose  College,  Oxford, 


104  T8E  POETRY  OF  AROIIlTEVTURE. 

the  capital  of  another,  running  up  beside  them  ;  the  bases 
being  very  tall,  sometimes  decorated  with  knots  of  flower- 
work  ;  the  columns  usually  fluted,  wreathed,  in  richer  exam- 
ples, with  ornament.  The  entrance  is  frequently  formed  by 
double  ranges  of  these  short  columns,  with  intermediate 
niches,  with  shell  canopies,  and  rich  crests  above.*  This  por- 
tico is  carried  up  to  some  height  above  the  roof,  which  is 
charged  with  an  infinite  variety  of  decorated  chimneys.  Now, 
all  this  is  utterly  barbarous  as  architecture ;  but,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  chimneys,  it  is  not  false  in  taste ;  for  it  was 
originally  intended  for  retired  and  quiet  habitations  in  our 
forest  country,  not  for  conspicuous  palaces  in  the  streets  of 
the  city ;  and  we  have  shown,  in  speaking  of  green  country, 
that  the  eye  is  gratified  with  fantastic  details  ;  that  it  is  pre- 
pared, by  the  mingled  lights  of  the  natural  scenery,  for  rich 
and  entangled  ornament,  and  would  not  only  endure,  but  de- 
mand, irregularity  of  system  in  the  architecture  of  man,  to 
correspond  with  the  infinite  variety  of  form  in  the  wood  archi- 
tecture of  nature.  Few  surprises  can  be  imagined  more  de- 
lightful than  the  breaking  out  of  one  of  these  rich  gables, 
with  its  decorated  entrance,  among  the  dark  trunks  and 
twinkling  leaves  of  forest  scenery.  Such  an  effect  is  rudely 
given  in  Fig.  37.  "We  would  direct  the  attention  chiefly  to 
the  following  points  in  the  building : — 

First,  it  is  a  humorist,  an  odd,  twisted,  independent  being, 
with  a  great  deal  of  mixed,  obstinate,  and  occasionally  absurd, 
originality.  It  has  one  or  two  graceful  lines  about  it,  and 
several  harsh  and  cutting  ones  :  it  is  a  whole,  which  would 
allow  of  no  unison  with  any  other  architecture  ;  it  is  gathered 
in  itself,  and  would  look  very  ugly  indeed,  if  pieces  in  a  purer 
style  of  building  were  added.  All  this  corresponds  with 
points  of  English  character,  with  its  humours,  its  indepen- 
dency, and  its  horror  of  being  put  out  of  its  own  way.  Again, 
it  is  a  thoroughly  domestic  building,  homely  and  cottage-like 

*  The  portico  of  the  schools,  and  the  inner  courts,  of  Merton  and 
St.  John's  Colleges,  Oxford  ;  an  old  house  at  Charlton,  Kent ;  and  Bur- 
leigh  House,  will  probably  occur  to  the  mind  of  the  architect,  as  good 
examples  of  the  varieties  of  this  mixed  style. 


THE  VILLA. 


105 


in  its  prevailing  forms,  awakening  no  elevated  ideas,  assum- 
ing no  nobility  of  form.  It  has  none  of  the  pride,  or  the  grace 
of  beauty,  none  of  the  dignity  of  delight,  which  we  found  in 
the  villa  of  Italy ;  but  it  is  a  habitation  of  every-day  life,  a 
protection  from  momentary  inconvenience,  covered  with  stiff 
efforts  at  decoration,  and  exactly  typical  of  the  mind  of  its 


FIG.  37. 

inhabitant :  not  noble  in  its  taste,  not  haughty  in  its  recrea- 
tion, not  pure  in  its  perception  of  beauty  ;  but  domestic  in 
its  pleasures,  fond  of  matter  of  fact  rather  than  of  imagina- 
tion, yet  sparkling  occasionally  with  odd  wit  and  grotesque 
association.  The  Italian  obtains  his  beauty,  as  his  recreation, 
with  quietness,  with  few  and  noble  lines,  with  great  serious- 
ness and  depth  of  thought,  with  very  rare  interruptions  to 


106  THE  POETRY   OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

the  simple  train  of  feeling.  But  the  Englishman's  villa  is  full 
of  effort :  it  is  a  business  with  him  to  be  playful,  an  infinite 
labour  to  be  ornamental :  he  forces  his  amusement  with  fits 
of  contrasted  thought,  with  mingling  of  minor  touches  of 
humour,  with  a  good  deal  of  sulkiness,  but  with  no  melan- 
choly ;  and,  therefore,  owing  to  this  last  adjunct,  the  build- 
ing, in  its  original  state,  cannot  be  called  beautiful,  and  we 
ought  not  to  consider  the  effect  of  its  present  antiquity,  evi- 
dence of  which  is,  as  was  before  proved,  generally  objection- 
able in  a  building  devoted  to  pleasure,  and  is  only  agreeable 
here,  because  united  with  the  memory  of  departed  pride. 

Again,  it  is  a  life-like  building,  sparkling  in  its  casements, 
brisk  in  its  air,  letting  much  light  in  at  the  walls  and  roof, 
low  and  comfortable-looking  in  its  door.  The  Italian's  dwell- 
ing is  much  walled  in,  letting  out  no  secrets  from  the  inside, 
dreary  and  drowsy  in  its  effect.  Just  such  is  the  difference 
between  the  minds  of  the  inhabitants  ;  the  one  passing  away 
in  deep  and  dark  reverie,  the  other  quick  and  business-like, 
enjoying  its  everyday  occupations,  and  active  in  its  ordinary 
engagements. 

Again,  it  is  a  regularly  planned,  mechanical,  well-disciplined 
building ;  each  of  its  parts  answering  to  its  opposite,  each  of 
its  ornaments  matched  with  similarity.  The  Italian  (where  it 
has  no  high  pretence  to  architectural  beauty)  is  a  rambling 
and  irregular  edifice,  varied  with  uncorresponding  masses : 
and  the  mind  of  the  Italian  we  find  similarly  irregular,  a  thing 
of  various  and  ungovernable  impulse,  without  fixed  principle 
of  action ;  the  Englishman's,  regular  and  uniform  in  its  emo- 
tions, steady  in  its  habits,  and  firm  even  in  its  most  trivial 
determinations. 

Lastly,  the  size  of  the  whole  is  diminutive,  compared  with 
the  villas  of  the  south,  in  which  the  effect  was  always  large 
and  general.  Here  the  eye  is  drawn  into  the  investigation  of 
particular  points,  and  miniature  details  ;  just  as,  in  compar- 
ing the  English  and  Continental  cottages,  we  found  the  one 
characterised  by  a  minute  finish,  and  the  other  by  a  massive 
effect,  exactly  correspondent  with  the  scale  of  the  features 
and  scenery  of  their  respective  localities. 


THE   VILLA.  107 

It  appears,  then,  from  the  consideration  of  these  several 
points,  that,  in  our  antiquated  style  of  villa  architecture,  some 
national  feeling  may  be  discovered  ;  but  in  any  buildings  now 
raised  there  is  no  character  whatever  :  all  is  ridiculous  imita- 
tion, and  despicable  affectation  ;  and  it  is  much  to  be  lamented, 
that  now,  when  a  great  deal  of  attention  has  been  directed  to 
architecture  on  the  part  of  the  public,  more  efforts  are  not 
made  to  turn  that  attention  from  mimicking  Swiss  chalets,  to 
erecting  English  houses.  We  need  not  devote  more  time  to 
the  investigation  of  purely  domestic  English  architecture, 
though  we  hope  to  derive  much  instruction  and  pleasure  from 
the  contemplation  of  buildings  partly  adapted  for  defence, 
and  partly  for  residence.  The  introduction  of  the  means  of 
defence  is,  however,  a  distinction  which  we  do  not  wish  at 
present  to  pass  over  ;  and,  therefore,  in  our  next  paper,  we 
hope  to  conclude  the  subject  of  the  villa,  by  a  few  remarks  on 
the  style  now  best  adapted  for  English  scenery, 


m.  The  English  Villa. — Principles  of  Composition. 

IT  has  lately  become  a  custom,  among  the  more  enlightened 
and  refined  of  metropolitan  shopkeepers,  to  advocate  the 
cause  of  propriety  in  architectural  decoration,  by  ensconcing 
their  shelves,  counters,  and  clerks  in  classical  edifices,  agree- 
ably ornamented  with  ingenious  devices,  typical  of  the  class 
of  articles  to  which  the  tradesman  particularly  desires  to  di- 
rect the  public  attention.  We  find  our  grocers  enshrined  in 
temples  whose  columns  are  of  canisters,  and  whose  pinnacles 
are  of  sugarloaves.  Our  shoemakers  shape  their  soles  under 
Gothic  portals,  with  pendants  of  shoes,  and  canopies  of  Wel- 
lingtons ;  and  our  cheesemongers  will,  we  doubt  not,  soon 
follow  the  excellent  example,  by  raising  shops  the  varied 
diameters  of  whose  jointed  columns,  in  their  address  to  the 
eye,  shall  awaken  memories  of  Staffa,  Psestum,  and  Palmyra ', 
and,  in  their  address  to  the  tongue,  shall  arouse  exquisite  as- 
sociations of  remembered  flavour,  Dutch,  Stilton,  and  Stra- 


108  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

chino.  Now,  this  fit  of  taste  on  the  part  of  our  tradesmen  is 
only  a  coarse  form  of  a  disposition  inherent  in  the  human 
mind.  Those  objects  to  which  the  eye  has  been  most  fre- 
quently accustomed,  and  among  which  the  intellect  has 
formed  its  habits  of  action,  and  the  soul  its  modes  of  emotion, 
become  agreeble  to  the  thoughts,  from  their  correspondence 
with  their  prevailing  cast,  especially  when  the  business  of  life 
has  had  any  relation  to  those  objects  ;  for  it  is  in  the  habitual 
and  necessary  occupation  that  the  most  painless  hours  of  exist- 
ence are  passed  :  whatever  be  the  nature  of  that  occupation, 
the  memories  belonging  to  it  will  always  be  agreeable,  and, 
therefore,  the  objects  awakening  such  memories  will  invaria- 
bly be  found  beautiful,  whatever  their  character  or  form.  It 
is  thus  that  taste  is  the  child  and  the  slave  of  memory  ;  and 
beauty  is  tested,  not  by  any  fixed  standard,  but  by  the  chances 
of  association  ;  so  that  in  every  domestic  building  evidence 
will  be^found  of  the  kind  of  life  through  which  its  owner  has 
passed,  in  the  operation  of  the  habits  of  mind  which  that  life 
has  induced.  From  the  superannuated  coxswain,  who  plants 
his  old  ship's  figure-head  in  his  six  square  feet  of  front  garden 
at  Bermondsey,  to  the  retired  noble,  the  proud  portal  of 
whose  mansion  is  surmounted  by  the  broad  shield  and  the 
crested  gryphon,  we  are  all  guided,  in  our  purest  conceptions, 
our  most  ideal  pursuit,  of  the  beautiful,  by  remembrances  of 
active  occupation,  and  by  principles  derived  from  industry 
regulate  the  fancies  of  our  repose. 

It  would  be  excessively  interesting  to  follow  out  the  inves- 
tigation of  this  subject  more  fully,  and  to  show  how  the  most 
refined  pleasures,  the  most  delicate  perceptions,  of  the  creat- 
ure who  has  been  appointed  to  eat  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow,  are  dependent  upon,  and  intimately  connected  with, 
his  hours  of  labour.  This  question,  however,  has  no  relation 
to  our  immediate  object,  and  we  only  allude  to  it,  that  we 
may  be  able  to  distinguish  between  the  two  component  parts 
of  individual  character ;  the  one  being  the  consequence  of 
continuous  habits  of  life  acting  upon  natural  temperament  and 
disposition,  the  other  being  the  humour  of  character,  conse- 
quent upon  circumstances  altogether  accidental,  taking  stem 


THE  VILLA.  109 

effect  upon  feelings  previously  determined  by  the  first  part  of 
tbe  character ;  laying  on,  as  it  were,  the  finishing  touches,  and 
occasioning  the  innumerable  prejudices,  fancies,  and  eccen- 
tricities, which,  modified  in  every  individual  to  an  infinite  ex- 
tent, form  the  visible  veil  of  the  human  heart. 

Now,  we  have  defined  the  province  of  the  architect  to  be, 
that  of  selecting  such  forms  and  colours  as  shall  delight  the 
mind,  by  preparing  it  for  the  operations  to  which  it  is  to  be 
subjected  in  the  building.  Now,  no  forms,  in  domestic  archi- 
tecture, can  thus  prepare  it  more  distinctly  than  those  which 
correspond  closely  with  the  first,  that  is,  the  fixed  and  funda- 
mental part  of  character,  which  is  always  so  uniform  in  its 
action  as  to  induce  great  simplicity  in  whatever  it  designs. 
Nothing,  on  tbe  contrary,  can  be  more  injurious  than  the 
slightest  influence  of  the  humours  upon  the  edifice ;  for  the 
influence  of  what  is  fitful  in  its  energy,  and  petty  in  its  imagina- 
tion, would  destroy  all  the  harmony  of  parts,  all  the  majesty  of 
the  whole  ;  would  substitute  singularity  for  beauty,  amusement 
for  delight,  and  surprise  for  veneration.  We  could  name  sev- 
eral instances  of  buildings  erected  by  men  of  the  highest  tal- 
ent, and  the  most  perfect  general  taste,  who  yet,  not  having 
paid  much  attention  to  the  first  principles  of  architecture, 
permitted  the  humour  of  their  disposition  to  prevail  over  the 
majesty  of  their  intellect,  and,  instead  of  building  from  a  fixed 
design,  gratified  freak  after  freak,  and  fancy  after  fancy,  as 
they  were  caught  by  the  dream  or  the  desire ;  mixed  mim- 
icries of  incongruous  reality  with  incorporations  of  undisci- 
plined ideal ;  awakened  every  variety  of  contending  feeling 
and  unconnected  memory ;  consummated  confusion  of  form 
by  trickery  of  detail ;  and  have  left  barbarism,  where  half  the 
world  will  look  for  loveliness. 

This  is  a  species  of  error  which  it  is  very  difficult  for  per- 
sons paying  superficial  and  temporary  attention  to  architect- 
ure to  avoid  :  however  just  their  taste  may  be  in  criticism,  it 
will  fail  in  creation.  It  is  only  in  moments  of  ease  and  amuse- 
ment that  they  will  think  of  their  villa :  they  make  it  a  mere 
plaything,  and  regard  it  with  a  kind  of  petty  exultation,  which, 
from  its  very  nature,  will  give  liberty  to  the  light  fancy, 


110  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

rather  than  the  deep  feeling,  of  the  mind.  It  is  not  thought 
necessary  to  bestow  labour  of  thought  and  periods  of  deliber- 
ation, on  one  of  the  toys  of  life  ;  still  less  to  undergo  the  vex- 
ation of  thwarting  wishes,  and  leaving  favourite  imaginations, 
relating  to  minor  points,  unfulfilled,  for  the  sake  of  general 
effect. 

This  feeling,  then,  is  the  first  to  which  we  would  direct  at- 
tention, as  the  villa  architect's  chief  enemy  :  he  will  find  it 
perpetually  and  provokingly  in  his  way.  He  is  requested, 
perhaps,  by  a  man  of  great  wealth,  nay,  of  established  taste  in 
some  points,  to  make  a  design  for  a  villa  in  a  lovely  situation. 
The  future  proprietor  carries  him  up-stairs  to  his  study,  to 
give  him  what  he  calls  his  "ideas  and  materials,"  and,  in  all 
probability,  begins  somewhat  thus  : — "  This,  sir,  is  a  slight 
note  :  I  made  it  on  the  spot :  approach  to  Villa  Eeale,  near 
Pozzuoli.  Dancing  nymphs,  you  perceive  ;  cypresses,  shell 
fountain.  I  think  I  should  like  something  like  this  for  the 
approach :  classical,  you  perceive,  sir ;  elegant,  graceful. 
Then,  sir,  this  is  a  sketch,  made  by  an  American  friend  of 
mine  :  Wheewhaw-Kantamaraw's  wigwam,  king  of  the — Can- 
nibal Islands,  I  think  he  said,  sir.  Log,  you  observe  ;  scalps, 
and  boa  constrictor  skins  :  curious.  Something  like  this,  sir, 
would  look  neat,  I  think,  for  the  front  door ;  don't  you  ? 
Then,  the  lower  windows,  I've  not  quite  decided  upon  ;  but 
what  would  you  say  to  Egyptian,  sir  ?  I  think  I  should  like 
my  windows  Egyptian,  with  hieroglyphics,  sir  ;  storks  and 
coffins,  and  appropriate  mouldings  above :  I  brought  some 
from  Fountains  Abbey  the  other  day.  Look  here,  sir ;  angels' 
heads  putting  their  tongues  out,  rolled  up  in  cabbage  leaves, 
with  a  dragon  on  each  side  riding  on  a  broomstick,  and  the 
devil  looking  on  from  the  mouth  of  an  alligator,  sir.*  Odd, 
I  think  ;  interesting.  Then  the  corners  may  be  turned  by 
octagonal  towers,  like  the  centre  one  in  Kenilworth  Castle ; 
with  Gothic  doors,  portcullis,  and  all,  quite  perfect ;  with 
cross  slits  for  arrows,  battlements  for  musketry,  machicolations 
for  boiling  lead,  and  a  room  at  the  top  for  drying  plums ;  and 
the  conservatory  at  the  bottom,  sir,  with  Virginian  creepera 
*  Actually  carved  on  one  of  the  groins  of  Roslin  Chapel. 


THE   VILLA.  Ill 

up  the  towers  :  door  supported  by  sphinxes,  holding  scrapers 
in  their  fore-paws,  and  having  their  tails  prolonged  into  warm- 
water  pipes,  to  keep  the  plants  safe  in  winter,  &c."  The 
architect  is,  without  doubt,  a  little  astonished  by  these  ideas 
and  combinations  ;  yet  he  sits  calmly  down  to  draw  his  eleva- 
tions, as  if  he  were  a  stone-mason,  or  his  employer  an  archi- 
tect ;  and  the  fabric  rises  to  electrify  its  beholders,  and  con- 
fer immortality  on  its  perpetrator.  This  is  no  exaggeration : 
we  have  not  only  listened  to  speculations  on  the  probable  de- 
gree of  the  future  majesty,  but  contemplated  the  actual  illus- 
trious existence,  of  several  such  buildings,  with  sufficient 
beauty  in  the  management  of  some  of  their  features  to  show 
that  an  architect  had  superintended  them,  and  sufficient  taste 
in  their  interior  economy  to  prove  that  a  refined  intellect  had 
projected  them  ;  and  had  projected  a  Vandalism,  only  because 
fancy  had  been  followed  instead  of  judgment ;  with  as  much 
nonchalance  as  is  evinced  by  a  perfect  poet,  who  is  extempo- 
rising doggerel  for  a  baby  ;  full  of  brilliant  points,  which  he 
cannot  help,  and  jumbled  into  confusion,  for  which  he  does 
not  care. 

Such  are  the  first  difficulties  to  be  encountered  in  villa  de- 
signs. They  must  always  continue  to  occur  in  some  degree, 
though  they  might  be  met  with  ease  by  a  determination  on 
the  part  of  professional  men  to  give  no  assistance  whatever, 
beyond  the  mere  superintendence  of  construction,  unless  they 
be  permitted  to  take  the  whole  exterior  design  into  their  own 
hands,  merely  receiving  broad  instructions  respecting  the 
style  (and  not  attending  to  them  unless  they  like).  They 
should  not  make  out  the  smallest  detail,  unless  they  were 
answerable  for  the  whole.  In  this  case,  gentlemen  architects 
would  be  thrown  so  utterly  on  their  own  resources,  that,  unless 
those  resources  were  adequate,  they  would  be  obliged  to  sur- 
render the  task  into  more  practised  hands  ;  and,  if  they  were 
adequate,  if  the  amateur  had  paid  so  much  attention  to  the 
art  as  to  be  capable  of  giving  the  design  perfectly,  it  is  prob- 
able he  would  not  erect  anything  strikingly  abominable. 

Such  a  system  (supposing  that  it  could  be  carried  fully  into 
effect,  and  that  there  were  no  such  animals  as  sentimental 


112  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

stone-masons  to  give  technical  assistance)  might,  at  first,  seem 
rather  an  encroachment  on  the  liberty  of  the  subject,  ina£- 
much  as  it  would  prevent  people  from  indulging  their  edifi- 
catorial  fancies,  unless  they  knew  something  about  the  matter, 
or,  as  the  sufferers  would  probably  complain,  from  doing 
what  they  liked  with  their  own.  But  the  mistake  would  evi- 
dently He  in  their  supposing,  as  people  too  frequently  do,  that 
the  outside  of  their  house  is  their  own,  and  that  they  have  a 
perfect  right  therein  to  make  fools  of  themselves  in  any  man- 
ner, and  to  any  extent,  they  may  think  proper.  This  is 
quite  true  in  the  case  of  interiors :  every  one  has  an  indispu- 
table right  to  hold  himself  up  as  a  laughing-stock  to  the  whole 
circle  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances,  and  to  consult  his  own 
private  asinine  comfort  by  every  piece  of  absurdity  which  can 
in  any  degree  contribute  to  the  same  ;  but  no  one  has  any 
right  to  exhibit  his  imbecilities  at  other  people's  expense,  or 
to  claim  the  public  pity  by  inflicting  public  pain.  In  England, 
especially,  where,  as  we  saw  before,  the  rage  for  attracting  ob- 
servation is  universal,  the  outside  of  the  villa  is  rendered,  by 
the  proprietor's  own  disposition,  the  property  of  those  who 
daily  pass  by,  and  whom  it  hourly  affects  with  pleasure  or 
pain.  For  the  pain  which  the  eye  feels  from  the  violation  of 
a  law  to  which  it  has  been  accustomed,  or  the  mind  from  the 
occurrence  of  anything  jamng  to  its  finest  feelings,  is  as  dis- 
tinct as  that  occasioned  by  the  interruption  of  the  physical 
economy,  differing  only  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  permanent ;  and, 
therefore,  an  individual  has  as  little  right  to  fulfill  his  own 
conceptions  by  disgusting  thousands,  as,  were  his  body  as  im- 
penetrable to  steel  or  poison,  as  his  brain  to  the  effect  of  the 
beautiful  or  true,  he  would  have  to  decorate  his  carriage 
roads  with  caltrops,  or  to  line  his  plantations  with  upas  trees. 
The  violation  of  general  feelings  would  thus  be  unjust,  even 
were  their  consultation  productive  of  continued  vexation  to 
the  individual :  but  it  is  not.  To  no  one  is  the  architecture 
of  the  exterior  of  a  dwelling-house  of  so  little  consequence  as 
to  its  inhabitant.  Its  material  may  affect  his  comfort,  and  its 
condition  may  touch  his  pride  ;  but  for  its  architecture,  his 
eye  gets  accustomed  to  it  in  a  week,  and,  after  that,  Hellenic, 


THE   VILLA.  113 

Barbaric,  or  Yankee,  are  all  the  same  to  the  domestic  feelings, 
are  all  lost  in  the  one  name  of  home.  Even  the  conceit  of 
living  in  a  chalet,  or  a  wigwam,  or  a  pagoda,  cannot  retain  its 
influence  for  six  months  over  the  weak  minds  which  alone  can 
feel  it ;  and  the  monotony  of  existence  becomes  to  them  ex- 
actly what  it  would  have  been  had  they  never  inflicted  a  pang 
upon  the  unfortunate  spectators,  whose  accustomed  eyes  shrink 
daily  from  the  impression  to  which  they  have  not  been  ren- 
dered callous  by  custom,  or  lenient  by  false  taste.  If  these 
conditions  are  just  when  they  allude  only  to  buildings  in  the 
abstract,  how  much  more  when  referring  to  them  as  materials 
of  composition,  materials  of  infinite  power,  to  adorn  or  destroy 
the  loveliness  of  the  earth.  The  nobler  scenery  of  that  earth 
is  the  inheritance  of  all  her  inhabitants  :  it  is  not  merely  for 
the  few  to  whom  it  temporarily  belongs,  to  feed  from  like 
swine,  or  to  stable  upon  like  horses,  but  it  has  been  appointed 
to  be  the  school  of  the  minds  which  are  kingly  among  their 
fellows,  to  excite  the  highest  energies  of  humanity,  to  furnish 
strength  to  the  lordliest  intellect,  and  food  for  the  holiest 
emotions  of  the  human  soul.  The  presence  of  life  is,  indeed, 
necessary  to  its  beauty,  but  of  life  congenial  with  its  charac- 
ter ;  and  that  life  is  not  congenial  which  thrusts  presumptu- 
ously forward,  amidst  the  calmness  of  the  universe,  the  confu- 
sion of  its  own  petty  interests  and  grovelling  imaginations, 
and  stands  up  with  the  insolence  of  a  moment,  amidst  the 
majesty  of  all  time,  to  build  baby  fortifications  upon  the  bones 
of  the  world,  or  to  sweep  the  copse  from  the  corrie,  and  the 
shadow  from  the  shore,  that  fools  may  risk,  and  gamblers 
gather,  the  spoil  of  a  thousand  summers. 

It  should  therefore  be  remembered,  by  every  proprietor  of 
land  in  hill  country,  that  his  possessions  are  the  means  of  a 
peculiar  education,  otherwise  unattainable,  to  the  artists,  and, 
in  some  degree,  to  the  literary  men,  of  his  country  ;  that,  even 
in  this  limited  point  of  view,  they  are  a  national  possession, 
but  much  more  so  when  it  is  remembered  how  many  thou- 
sands are  perpetually  receiving  from  them,  not  merely  a  tran- 
sitory pleasure,  but  such  thrilling  perpetuity  of  pure  emotion, 
such  lofty  subject  for  scientific  speculation,  aud  such  deep 


114  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

lessons  of  natural  religion,  as  only  the  work  of  a  Deity  can 
impress,  and  only  the  spirit  of  an  immortal  can  feel :  they 
should  remember  that  the  slightest  deformity,  the  most  con- 
temptible excrescence,  can  injure  the  effect  of  the  noblest 
natural  scenery,  as  a  note  of  discord  can  annihilate  the  expres- 
sion of  the  purest  harmony  ;  that  thus  it  is  in  the  power  of 
worms  to  conceal,  to  destroy,  or  to  violate,  what  angels  could 
not  restore,  create,  or  consecrate  ;  and  that  the  right,  which 
every  man  unquestionably  possesses,  to  be  an  ass,  is  extended 
only,  in  public,  to  those  who  are  innocent  in  idiotism,  not  to 
the  more  malicious  clowns  who  thrust  their  degraded  motley 
conspicuously  forth  amidst  the  fair  colours  of  earth,  and  mix 
their  incoherent  cries  with  the  melodies  of  eternity,  break 
with  their  inane  laugh  upon  the  silence  which  Creation  keeps 
where  Omnipotence  passes  most  visibly,  and  scrabble  over 
with  the  characters  of  idiocy  the  pages  that  have  been  written 
by  the  finger  of  God. 

These  feelings  we  would  endeavour  to  impress  upon  all 
persons  likely  to  have  anything  to  do  with  embellishing,  as  it 
is  called,  fine  natural  scenery  ;  as  they  might,  in  some  degree, 
convince  both  the  architect  and  his  employer  of  the  danger  of 
giving  free  play  to  the  imagination  in  cases  involving  intricate 
questions  of  feeling  and  composition,  and  might  persuade  the 
designer  of  the  necessity  of  looking,  not  to  his  own  acre  of 
land,  or  to  his  own  peculiar  tastes,  but  to  the  whole  mass  of 
forms  and  combination  of  impressions  with  which  he  is  sur- 
rounded. 

Let  us  suppose,  however,  that  the  design  is  yielded  entirely 
to  the  architect's  discretion.  Being  a  piece  of  domestic  archi- 
tecture, the  chief  object  in  its  exterior  design  will  be  to  arouse 
domestic  feelings,  which,  as  we  saw  before,  it  will  do  most 
distinctly  by  corresponding  with  the  first  part  of  character. 
Yet  it  is  still  more  necessary  that  it  should  correspond  with 
its  situation  ;  and  hence  arises  another  difficulty,  the  recon- 
ciliation of  correspondence  with  contraries ;  for  such,  it  is 
deeply  to  be  regretted,  are  too  often  the  individual's  mind, 
and  the  dwelling-place  it  chooses.  The  polished  courtier 
brings  his  refinement  and  duplicity  with  him,  to  ape  the  Area- 


VILLA.  115 

dian  rustic  in  Devonshire  ;  the  romantic  rhymer  takes  a  plas- 
tered habitation,  with  one  back  window  looking  into  the  green 
park  ;  the  soft  votary  of  luxury  endeavours  to  rise  at  seven, 
in  some  Ultima  Thule  of  frost  and  storms  ;  and  the  rich 
stock-jobber  calculates  his  per-centages  among  the  soft  dingles 
and  woody  shores  of  Westmoreland.  When  the  architect 
finds  this  to  be  the  case,  he  must,  of  course,  content  himself 
with  suiting  his  design  to  such  a  mind  as  ought  to  be  where 
the  intruder's  is  ;  for  the  feelings  which  are  so  much  at  vari- 
ance with  themselves  in  the  choice  of  situation,  will  not  bo 
found  too  critical  of  their  domicile,  however  little  suited  to 
their  temper.  If  possible,  however,  he  ihould  aim  at  something 
more  ;  he  should  draw  his  employer  into  general  conversation  ; 
observe  the  bent  of  his  disposition,  and  the  habits  of  his  mind  ; 
notice  every  manifestation  of  fixed  opinions,  and  then  transfer 
to  his  architecture  as  much  of  the  feeling  he  has  observed  as 
is  distinct  in  its  operation.  This  he  should  do,  not  because 
the  general  spectator  will  be  aware  of  the  aptness  of  the  build- 
ing, which,  knowing  nothing  of  its  inmate,  he  cannot  be  ;  nor 
to  please  the  individual  himself,  which  it  is  a  chance  if  any 
simple  design  ever  will,  and  who  never  will  find  out  how  well 
his  character  has  been  fitted  ;  but  because  a  portrait  is  always 
more  spirited  than  a  composed  countenance  ;  and  because 
this  study  of  human  passions  will  bring  a  degree  of  energy, 
unity,  and  originality  into  every  one  of  his  designs  (all  of 
which  will  necessarily  be  different),  so  simple,  so  domestic, 
and  so  life  like,  as  to  strike  every  spectator  with  an  interest 
and  a  sympathy,  for  which  he  will  be  utterly  unable  to  ac- 
count, and  to  impress  on  him  a  perception  of  something  more 
ethereal  than  stone  or  carving,  somewhat  similar  to  that  which 
some  will  remember  having  felt  disagreeably  in  their  child- 
hood, on  looking  at  any  old  house  authentically  haunted. 
The  architect  will  forget  in  his  study  of  life  the  formalities  of 
science,  and,  while  his  practised  eye  will  prevent  him  from 
erring  in  technicalities,  he  will  advance,  with  the  ruling  feel- 
ing, which,  in  masses  of  mind,  is  nationality,  to  the  concep- 
tion of  something  truly  original,  yet  perfectly  pure. 

He  will  also  find  his  advantage  in  having  obtained  a  guide 


116  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

in  the  invention  of  decorations  of  which,  as  we  shall  show,  we 
would  have  many  more  in  English  villas  than  economy  at  pres- 
ent allows.  Candidus  complains,  in  his  Note-Book,  that  Eliza- 
bethan architecture  is  frequently  adopted,  because  it  is  easy, 
with  a  pair  of  scissors,  to  derive  a  zigzag  ornament  from  a 
doubled  piece  of  paper.  But  we  would  fain  hope  that  none 
of  our  professional  architects  have  so  far  lost  sight  of  the 
meaning  of  their  art,  as  to  believe  that  roughening  stone 
mathematically  is  bestowing  decoration,  though  we  are  too 
sternly  convinced  that  they  believe  mankind  to  be  more  short- 
sighted by  at  least  thirty  yards  than  they  are  ;  for  they  think 
of  nothing  but  general  effect  in  their  ornaments,  and  lay  on 
their  flower-work  so  carelessly,  that  a  good  substantial  cap- 
tain's biscuit,  with  the  small  holes  left  by  the  penetration  of 
the  baker's  four  fingers,  encircling  the  large  one  which  testi- 
fies of  the  forcible  passage  of  his  thumb,  would  form  quite  as 
elegant  a  rosette  as  hundreds  now  perpetuated  in  stone.  Now, 
there  is  nothing  which  requires  study  so  close,  or  experiment 
so  frequent,  as  the  proper  designing  of  ornament.  For  its 
use  and  position  some  definite  rules  may  be  given  ;  but,  when 
the  space  and  position  have  been  determined,  the  lines  of 
curvature,  the  breadth,  depth,  and  sharpness  of  the  shadows 
to  be  obtained,  the  junction  of  the  parts  of  a  group,  and  the 
general  expression,  will  present  questions  for  the  solution  of 
which  the  study  of  years  will  sometimes  scarcely  be  suffi- 
cient ;  *  for  they  depend  upon  the  feeling  of  the  eye  and  hand, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  perfection  in  decoration,  nothing 
which,  in  all  probability,  might  not,  by  farther  consideration, 
be  improved.  Now,  in  cases  in  which  the  outline  and  larger 
masses  are  determined  by  situation,  the  architect  will  fre- 
quently find  it  necessary  to  fall  back  upon  his  decorations,  as 
the  only  means  of  obtaining  character ;  and  that  which  before 

*  For  example,  we  would  allow  one  of  the  modern  builders  of  Gothic 
chapels  a  month  of  invention,  and  a  botanic  garden  to  work  from,  with 
perfect  certainty  that  he  would  not,  at  the  expiration  of  the  time,  be 
able  to  present  us  with  one  design  of  leafage  equal  in  beauty  to  hun- 
dreds we  could  point  out  in  the  capitals  and  niches  of  Melrose  and  Koa- 
lin. 


THE   VILLA 


117 


was  an  unmeaning  lump  of  jagged  freestone,  will  become  a 
part  of  expression,  an  accessory  of  beautiful  design,  varied  in 
its  form,  and  delicate  in  its  effect.  Then,  instead  of  shrink- 
ing from  his  bits  of  ornament,  as  from  things  which  will  give 
him  trouble  to  invent,  and  will  answer  no  other  purpose  than 
that  of  occupying  what  would  otherwise  have  looked  blank, 
the  designer  will  view  them  as  an  efficient  corps  de  reserve,  to 
be  brought  up  when  the  eye  comes  to  close  quarters  with  the 
edifice,  to  maintain  and  deepen  the  impression  it  has  pre- 
viously received.  Much  more  time 
will  be  spent  in  the  conception,  much 
more  labour  in  the  execution,  of  such 
meaning  ornament,  but  both  will  be 
well  spent,  and  well  rewarded. 

Perhaps  our  meaning  may  be  made 
more  clear  by  Fig.  38,  which  is  that 
of  a  window  found  in  a  domestic 
building  of  mixed  and  corrupt  archi- 
tecture, at  Munich  (which  we  give 
now,  because  we  shall  have  occasion 
to  allude  to  it  hereafter).  Its  absurd 
breadth  of  moulding,  so  dispropor- 
tionate to  its  cornice,  renders  it  ex- 
cessively ugly,  but  capable  of  great 
variety  of  effect.  It  forms  one  of  a 
range  of  four,  turning  an  angle, 
whose  mouldings  join  each  other, 
their  double  breadth  being  the  whole  separation  of  the  aper- 
tures, which  are  something  more  than  double  squares.  Now, 
by  alteration  of  the  decoration,  and  depth  of  shadow,  we  have 
Figs.  39  and  40.  These  three  windows  differ  entirely  in  their 
feeling  and  manner,  and  are  broad  examples  of  such  distinctions 
of  style  as  might  be  adopted  severally  in  the  habitations  of  the 
man  of  imagination,  the  man  of  intellect,  and  the  man  of  feel- 
ing. If  our  alterations  have  been  properly  made,  there  will  be 
no  difficulty  in  distinguishing  between  their  expressions,  which 
we  shall  therefore  leave  to  conjecture.  The  character  of  Fig. 
38  depends  upon  the  softness  with  which  the  light  is  caught 


Fio.  38. 


118 


THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


upon  its  ornaments,  which  should  not  have  a  single  hard  line 
in  them  ;  and  on  the  gradual,  unequal,  but  intense,  depth  of 
its  shadows.  Fig.  39  should  have  all  its  forms  undefined,  and 
passing  into  one  another,  the  touches  of  the  chisel  light,  a 
grotesque  face  or  feature  occurring  in  parts,  the  shadows 
pale,  but  broad*  ;  and  the  boldest  part  of  the  carving  kept  in 


Fio.  39. 


FIG.  40. 


shadow  rather  than  light.     The  third  should  be  hard  in  its 
lines,  strong  in  its  shades,  and  quiet  in  its  ornament. 

These  hints  will  be  sufficient  to  explain  our  meaning,  and 
we  have  not  space  to  do  more,  as  the  object  of  these  papers 
is  rather  to  observe  than  to  advise.  Besides,  in  questions  of 
expression  so  intricate,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  advance  fixed 

*  It  is  too  much,  the  custom  to  consider  a  design  as  composed  of  a  cer- 
tain number  of  hard  lines,  instead  of  a  certain  number  of  shadows  of 
various  depth  and  dimension.  Though  these  shadows  change  their  po- 
sition in  the  coiarse  of  the  day,  they  are  relatively  always  the  same. 
They  have  most  variety  under  a  strong  light  without  sun,  most  expres- 
sion with  the  sun.  A  little  observation  of  the  infinite  variety  of  shade 
which  the  sun  is  capable  of  casting,  as  it  touches  projections  of  different 
curve  and  character,  will  enable  the  designer  to  be  certain  of  his  effects, 
We  shall  have  occasion  to  allude  to  this  subject  again. 


THE   VILLA.  119 

principles ;  every  mind  will  have  perceptions  of  its  own,  wliich 
will  guide  its  speculations,  every  hand,  and  eye,  and  peculiar 
feeling,  varying  even  from  year  to  year.  We  have  only 
started  the  subject  of  correspondence  with  individual  char- 
acter, because  we  think  that  imaginative  minds  might  take  up 
the  idea  with  some  success,  as  furnishing  them  with  a  guido 
in  the  variation  of  their  designs,  more  certain  than  mere  ex- 
periment on  unmeaning  forms,  or  than  ringing  indiscriminate 
changes  on  component  parts  of  established  beauty.  To  the 
reverie,  rather  than  the  investigation,  to  the  dream,  rather 
than  the  deliberation,  of  the  architect,  we  recommend  it,  as  a 
branch  of  art  in  which  instinct  will  do  more  than  precept,  and 
inspiration  than  technicality.  The  correspondence  of  our 
villa  architecture  with  our  natural  scenery  may  be  determined 
with  far  greater  accuracy,  and  will  require  careful  investiga- 
tion. 

We  had  hoped  to  have  concluded  the  Villa  in  this  paper ; 
but  the  importance  of  domestic  architecture  at  the  present 
day,  when  people  want  houses  more  than  fortresses,  safes 
more  than  keeps,  and  sculleries  more  than  dungeons,  is  suf- 
ficient  apology  for  delay. 

Oxford,  August,  1838. 

IV.  The  British  Villa.     The  Cultivated,  or  Blue,  Country. — • 
Principles  of  Composition. 

IN  the  papers  hitherto  devoted  to  the  investigation  of  villa 
architecture,  we  have  contemplated  the  beauties  of  what  may 
be  considered  as  its  model  in  its  original  and  natural  territory, 
and  we  have  noticed  the  difficulties  to  be  encountered  in  the 
just  erection  of  villas  in  England.  It  remains  only  to  lay 
down  the  general  principles  of  composition,  which,  in  such 
difficulties,  may,  in  some  degree,  serve  as  a  guide.  Into  more 
than  general  principles  it  is  not  consistent  with  our  plan  to 
enter.  One  obstacle,  which  was  more  particularly  noticed, 
was,  as  it  may  be  remembered,  the  variety  of  the  geological 
formations  of  the  country.  This  will  compel  us  to  use  the 
divisions  of  landscape  formerly  adopted  in  speaking  of  th? 


120  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

cottage,  and  to  investigate  severally  the  kind  of  domestic  ar- 
chitecture required  by  each. 

First.  Blue  or  cultivated  country,  which  is  to  be  considered 
as  including  those  suburban  districts,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  populous  cities,  which,  though  more  frequently  black  than 
blue,  possess  the  activity,  industry,  and  life,  which  we  before 
noticed  as  one  of  the  characteristics  of  blue  country.  We 
shall  not,  however,  allude  to  suburban  villas  at  present ;  first, 
because  they  are  in  country  possessing  nothing  which  can  be 
spoiled  by  anything ;  and,  Secondly,  because  their  close 
association  renders  them  subject  to  laws  which,  being  alto- 
gether different  from  those  by  which  we  are  to  judge  of  the 
beauty  of  solitary  villas,  we  shall  have  to  develope  in  the  con- 
sideration of  street  effects. 

Passing  over  the  suburb,  then,  we  have  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  simple  blue  country,  which  is  composed  only  of  rich 
cultivated  champaign,  relieved  in  parts  by  low  undulations, 
monotonous  and  uninteresting  as  a  whole,  though  cheerful  in 
its  character,  and  beautiful  in  details  of  lanes  and  meadow 
paths  ;  and  the  picturesque  blue  country,  lying  at  the  foot  of 
high  hill  ranges,  intersected  by  their  outworks,  broken  here 
and  there  into  bits  of  crag  and  dingle  scenery ;  perpetually 
presenting  prospects  of  exquisite  distant  beauty,  and  possess- 
ing, in  its  valley  and  river  scenery,  fine  detached  specimens  of 
the  natural  "green  country."  This  distinction  we  did  not 
make  in  speaking  of  the  cottage  ;  the  effect  of  which,  owing  to 
its  size,  can  extend  only  over  a  limited  space  ;  and  this  space, 
if  in  picturesque  blue  country,  must  be  either  part  of  its  mo- 
notonous cultivation,  when  it  is  to  be  considered  as  belonging 
to  the  simple  blue  country,  or  part  of  its  dingle  scenery,  when 
it  becomes  green  country  ;  and  it  would  not  be  just,  to  suit  a 
cottage,  actually  placed  in  one  colour,  to  the  general  effect  of 
another  colour,  with  which  it  could  have  nothing  to  do.  But 
the  effect  of  the  villa  extends  very  often  over  a  considerable 
space,  and  becomes  part  of  the  large  features  of  the  district  ; 
so  that  the  whole  character  and  expression  of  the  visible  land- 
scape must  be  considered,  and  thus  the  distinction  between 
the  two  kinds  of  blue  country  becomes  absolutely  necessary, 


THE   VILLA.  121 

Of  the  first,  or  simple,  we  have  already  adduced,  as  an  ex- 
ample, the  greater  part  of  the  south  of  England.  Of  the 
second,  or  picturesque,  the  cultivated  parts  of  the  North  and 
East  Hidings  of  Yorkshire,  generally  Shropshire,  and  the 
north  of  Lancashire,  and  Cumberland,  beyond  Caldbeck  Fells, 
are  good  examples ;  perhaps  better  than  all,  the  country  for 
twelve  miles  north,  and  thirty  south,  east,  and  west,  of  Stirling. 

Now,  the  matter-of-fact  business-like  activity  of  simple  blue 
country  has  been  already  alluded  to.  This  attribute  renders 
in  it  a  plain  palpable  brick  dwelling-house  allowable  ;  though 
a  thing  which,  in  every  country  but  the  simple  blue,  compels 
every  spectator  of  any  feeling  to  send  up  aspirations,  that 
builders  who,  like  those  of  Babel,  have  brick  for  stone,  may 
be  put,  like  those  of  Babel,  to  confusion.  Here,  however,  it 
is  not  only  allowable,  but  even  agreeable,  for  the  following 
reasons : — 

Its  cleanness  and  freshness  of  colour,  admitting  of  little 
dampness  or  staining,  firm  in  its  consistence,  not  mouldering 
like  stone,  and  therefore  inducing  no  conviction  of  antiquity 
or  decay,  presents  rather  the  appearance  of  such  comfort  as  is 
contrived  for  the  enjoyment  of  temporary  wealth,  than  of  such 
solidity  as  is  raised  for  the  inheritance  of  unfluctuating  power. 
It  is  thus  admirably  suited  for  that  country  where  all  is 
change,  and  all  activity  ;  where  the  working  and  money-mak- 
ing members  of  the  community  are  perpetually  succeeding 
and  overpowering  each  other ;  enjoying,  each  in  his  turn,  the 
reward  of  his  industry  ;  yielding  up  the  field,  the  pasture,  and 
the  mine,  to  his  successor,  and  leaving  no  more  memory 
behind  him,  no  farther  evidence  of  his  individual  existence, 
than  is  left  by  a  working  bee,  in  the  honey  for  which  we 
thank  his  class,  forgetting  the  individual.  The  simple  blue 
country  may,  in  fact,  be  considered  the  dining-table  of  the 
nation  ;  from  which  it  provides  for  its  immediate  necessities, 
at  which  it  feels  only  its  present  existence,  and  in  which  it 
requires,  not  a  piece  of  furniture  adapted  only  to  remind  it  of 
past  refection,  but  a  polished,  clean,  and  convenient  minister 
to  its  immediate  wishes.  No  habitation,  therefore,  in  this 
country,  should  look  old :  it  should  give  an  impression  of 


THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

present  prosperity,  of  swift  motion  and  high  energy  of  life  -, 
too  rapid  in  its  successive  operation  to  attain  greatness,  or 
allow  of  decay,  in  its  works.  This  is  the  first  cause  which,  in 
this  country,  renders  brick  allowable. 

Again,  wherever  the  soil  breaks  out  in  simple  blue  country, 
whether  in  the  river  shore,  or  the  broken  roadside  bank,  or 
the  ploughed  field,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  it  is  excessively 
warm  in  its  colour,  being  either  gravel  or  clay,  the  black 
vegetable  soil  never  remaining  free  of  vegetation.  The  warm 
tone  of  these  beds  of  soil  is  an  admirable  relief  to  the  blue  of 
the  distances,  which  we  have  taken  as  the  distinctive  feature 
of  the  country,  tending  to  produce  the  perfect  light  without 
which  no  landscape  can  be  complete.  Therefore  the  red  of 
the  brick  is  prevented  from  glaring  upon  the  eye,  by  its  fall- 
ing in  with  similar  colours  in  the  ground,  and  contrasting 
finely  with  the  general  tone  of  the  distance.  This  is  another 
instance  of  the  material  which  nature  most  readily  furnishes 
being  the  right  one.  In  almost  all  blue  country,  we  have  only 
to  turn  out  a  few  spadefuls  of  loose  soil,  and  we  come  to  the 
bed  of  clay,  which  is  the  best  material  for  the  building : 
whereas  we  should  have  to  travel  hundreds  of  miles,  or  to  dig 
thousands  of  feet,  to  get  the  stone  which  nature  does  not 
want,  and  therefore  has  not  given. 

Another  excellence  in  brick  is  its  perfect  air  of  English 
respectability.  It  is  utterly  impossible  for  an  edifice  alto- 
gether of  brick  to  look  affected  or  absurd  :  it  may  look  rude, 
it  may  look  vulgar,  it  may  look  disgusting,  in  a  wrong  place  ; 
but  it  cannot  look  foolish,  for  it  is  incapable  of  pretension. 
We  may  suppose  its  master  a  brute,  or  an  ignoramus,  but  we 
can  never  suppose  him  a  coxcomb  :  a  bear  he  may  be,  a  fop 
he  cannot  be  ;  and,  if  we  find  him  out  of  his  place,  we  feel 
that  it  is  owing  to  error,  not  to  impudence  ;  to  self-ignorance, 
not  to  self-conceit ;  to  the  want,  not  the  assumption,  of  feel- 
ing. It  is  thus  that  brick  is  peculiarly  English  in  its  effect : 
for  we  are  brutes  in  many  things,  and  we  are  ignorami  in 
many  things,  and  we  are  destitute  of  feeling  in  many  things, 
but  we  are  not  coxcombs.  It  is  only  by  the  utmost  effort, 
that  some  of  our  most  highly  gifted  junior  gentlemen  can 


THE   VILLA.  123 

attain  such  distinction  of  title  ;  and  even  then  the  honour  sits 
ill  upon  them :  they  are  but  awkward  coxcombs.  Affectation  * 
never  was,  and  never  will  be,  a  part  of  English  character  :  we 
have  too  much  national  pride,  too  much  consciousness  of  our 
own  dignity  and  power,  too  much  established  self-satisfaction, 
to  allow  us  to  become  ridiculous  by  imitative  efforts  ;  and,  as 
it  is  only  by  endeavouring  to  appear  what  he  is  not,  that  a 
man  ever  can  become  so,  properly  speaking,  our  truewitted 
Continental  neighbours,  who  shrink  from  John  Bull  as  a  brute, 
never  laugh  at  him  as  a  fool  "H  est  bete,  il  n'est  pas  pour- 
tan  t  sot." 

The  brick  house  admirably  corresponds  with  this  part  of 
English  character  ;  for,  unable  as  it  is  to  bo  beautiful,  or 
graceful,  or  dignified,  it  is  equally  unable  to  be  absurd.  There 
is  a  proud  independence  about  it,  which  seems  conscious  of 
its  own  entire  and  perfect  applicability  to  those  uses  for  which 
it  was  built,  and  full  of  a  good-natured  intention  to  render 
every  one  who  seeks  shelter  within  its  walls  excessively  com- 
fortable :  it  therefore  feels  awkward  in  no  company ;  and, 
wherever  it  intrudes  its  good-humoured  red  face,  stares  plas- 
ter and  marble  out  of  countenance,  with  an  insensible  audac- 
ity, which  we  drive  out  of  such  refined  company,  as  we  would 
a  clown  from  a  drawing-room,  but  which  we  neverthless  seek 
in  its  own  place,  as  we  would  seek  the  conversation  of  the 
clown  in  his  own  turnip  field,  if  he  were  sensible  in  the  main. 

Lastly.  Brick  is  admirably  adapted  for  the  climate  of  Eng- 
land, and  for  the  frequent  manufacturing  nuisances  of  English 

*  The  nation,  indeed,  possesses  one  or  two  interesting  individuals, 
whose  affectation  is,  as  we  have  seen,  strikingly  manifested  in  their  lake 
villas:  but  every  rule  has  its  exceptions  ;  and,  even  on  these  gifted  per- 
sonages, the  affectation  sits  so  very  awkwardly,  so  like  a  velvet  bonnet 
on  a  ploughman's  carroty  hair,  that  it  is  evidently  a  late  acquisition. 
Thus,  one  proprietor  of  land  on  Windermere,  who  has  built  unto  him- 
self a  castellated  mansion  with  round  towers,  and  a  Swiss  cottage  for  a 
stable,  has  yet,  with  that  admiration  of  the  "neat  but  not  gaudy," 
which  is  commonly  reported  to  have  influenced  the  devil  when  he 
painted  his  tail  pea-green,  painted  the  rocks  at  the  back  of  his  house 
pink,  that  they  may  look  clean.  This  is  a  little  outcrop  of  Englisli 
feeling  in  the  midst  of  the  assumed  romance. 


124  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

blue  country  ;  for  the  smoke,  which  makes  marble  look  like 
charcoal,  and  stucco  like  mud,  only  renders  brick  less  glaring 
in  its  colour ;  and  the  inclement  climate,  which  makes  the 
composition  front  look  as  if  its  architect  had  been  amusing  him- 
self by  throwing  buckets  of  green  water  down  from  the  roof, 
and  before  which  the  granite  base  of  Stirling  Castle  is  mould- 
ering into  sand  as  impotent  as  ever  was  ribbed  by  ripple, 
wreaks  its  rage  in  vain  upon  the  bits  of  baked  clay,  leav- 
ing them  strong,  and  dry,  and  stainless,  warm  and  comfort- 
able in  their  effect,  even  when  neglect  has  permitted  the  moss 
and  wallflower  to  creep  into  their  crannies,  and  mellow  into 
something  like  beauty  that  which  is  always  comfort.  Damp, 
which  fills  many  stones  as  it  would  a  sponge,  is  defied  by  the 
brick  ;  and  the  warmth  of  every  gleam  of  sunshine  is  caught 
by  it,  and  stored  up  for  future  expenditure  ;  so  that,  both 
actually  and  in  its  effect,  it  is  peculiarly  suited  for  a  climate 
whose  changes  are  in  general  from  bad  to  worse,  and  from 
worse  to  bad. 

These,  then,  are  the  principal  apologies  which  the  brick 
dwelling-house  has  to  offer  for  its  ugliness.  They  will,  how- 
ever, only  stand  it  in  stead  in  the  simple  blue  country  ;  and, 
even  there,  only  when  the  following  points  are  observed. 

First  The  brick  should  neither  be  of  the  white,  nor  the 
very  dark  red,  kind.  The  white  is  worse  than  useless  as  a 
colour:  its  cold,  raw,  sandy,  neutral  has  neither  warmth 
enough  to  relieve,  nor  grey  enough  to  harmonise  with,  any 
natural  tones  ;  it  does  not  please  the  eye  by  warmth,  in  shade  ; 
it  hurts  it,  by  dry  heat  in  sun  ;  it  has  none  of  the  advantages 
of  effect  which  brick  may  have,  to  compensate  for  the  vulgar- 
ity which  it  must  have,  and  is  altogether  to  be  abhorred.  The 
very  bright  red,  again,  is  one  of  the  ugliest  warm  colours  that 
art  ever  stumbled  upon  :  it  is  never  mellowed  by  damp  or  any- 
thing else,  and  spoils  every  thing  near  it  by  its  intolerable  and 
inevitable  glare.  The  moderately  dark  brick,  of  a  neutral  red, 
is  to  be  chosen,  and  this,  after  a  year  or  two,  will  be  farther 
softened  in  its  colour  by  atmospheric  influence,  and  will  pos- 
sess all  the  advantages  we  have  enumerated.  It  is  almost  un- 
necessary to  point  out  its  fitness  for  a  damp  situation,  not 


THE  VILLA.  125 

only  as  the  best  material  for  securing  the  comfort  of  the  in- 
habitant, but  because  it  will  the  sooner  contract  a  certain  de- 
gree of  softness  of  tone,  occasioned  by  microscopic  vegetation, 
which  will  leave  no  more  brick-red  than  is  agreeable  to  the 
feelings  where  the  atmosphere  is  chill. 

Secondly.  Even  this  kind  of  red  is  a  very  powerful  colour ; 
and  as,  in  combination  with  the  other  primitive  colours,  very 
little  of  it  will  complete  the  light,  so,  very  little  will  an- 
swer every  purpose  in  landscape  composition,  and  every  ad- 
dition, above  that  little,  will  be  disagreeable.  Brick,  there- 
fore, never  should  be  used  in  large  groups  of  buildings, 
where  those  groups  are  to  form  part  of  landscape  scenery : 
two  or  three  houses,  partly  shaded  with  trees,  are  all  that  can 
be  admitted  at  once.  There  is  no  object  more  villainously 
destructive  of  natural  beauty,  than  a  large  town,  of  very  red 
brick,  with  very  scarlet  tiling,  very  tall  chimneys,  and  very 
few  trees  ;  while  there  are  few  objects  that  harmonise  more 
agreeably  with  the  feeling  of  English  ordinary  landscape,  than 
the  large,  old,  solitary,  brick  manor  house,  with  its  group  of 
dark  cedars  on  the  lawn  in  front,  and  the  tall  wrought-iron 
gates  opening  down  the  avenue  of  approach. 

Thirdly.  No  stone  quoining,  or  presence  of  any  contrasting 
colour,  should  be  admitted.  Quoins,  in  general  (though,  by 
the  by,  they  are  prettily  managed  in  the  old  Tolbooth  of  Glas- 
gow, and  some  -other  antique  buildings  in  Scotland),  are  only 
excusable  as  giving  an  appearance  of  strength ;  while  their 
zigzag  monotony,  when  rendered  conspicuous  by  difference 
of  colour,  is  altogether  detestable.  White  cornices,  niches, 
and  the  other  superfluous  introductions  in  stone  and  plaster, 
which  some  architects  seem  to  think  ornamental,  only  mock 
what  they  cannot  mend,  take  away  the  whole  expression  ot 
the  edifice,  render  the  brick-red  glaring  and  harsh,  and  be- 
come themselves  ridiculous  in  isolation.  Besides,  as  a  general 
principle,  contrasts  of  extensive  colour  are  to  be  avoided  in 
all  buildings,  and  especially  in  positive  and  unmanageable 
tints.  It  is  difficult  to  imagine  whence  the  custom  of  putting 
stone  ornaments  into  brick  buildings  could  have  arisen  ;  un- 
less it  be  an  imitation  of  the  Italian  custom  of  mixing  marble 


126  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

with  stucco,  which  affords  it  no  sanction,  as  the  marble  is 
only  distinguishable  from  the  general  material  by  the  sharp- 
ness of  the  carved  edges.  The  Dutch  seem  to  have  been  the 
originators  of  the  custom  ;  and,  by  the  by,  if  we  remember 
right,  in  one  of  the  very  finest  pieces  of  colouring  now  extant, 
a  landscape  by  Rubens  (in  the  gallery  at  Munich,  we  think), 
the  artist  seems  to  have  sanctioned  the  barbarism,  by  intro- 
ducing a  brick  edifice,  with  white  stone  quoining.  But  the 
truth  is,  that  he  selected  the  subject,  partly  under  the  influ- 
ence of  domestic  feelings,  the  place  being,  as  it  is  thought, 
his  own  habitation  ;  and  partly  as  a  piece  of  practice,  present- 
ing such  excessive  difficulties  of  colour,  as  he,  the  lord  of 
colour,  who  alone  could  overcome  them,  would  peculiarly  de- 
light in  overcoming  ;  and  the  harmony  with  which  he  has 
combined  tints  of  the  most  daring  force,  and  sharpest  appar- 
ent contrast,  in  this  edgy  building,  and  opposed  them  to  an 
uninteresting  distance  of  excessive  azure  (simple  blue  country, 
observe),  is  one  of  the  chief  wonders  of  the  painting  :  so  that 
this  masterpiece  can  no  more  furnish  an  apology  for  the  con- 
tinuance of  a  practice  which,  though  it  gives  some  liveliness 
of  character  to  the  warehouses  of  Amsterdam,  is  fit  only  for  a 
place  whose  foundations  are  mud,  and  whose  inhabitants  are 
partially  animated  cheeses,  than  Caravaggio's  custom  of  paint- 
ing blackguards  should  introduce  an  ambition  among  mankind 
in  general  of  becoming  fit  subjects  for  his  pencil.  We  shall 
have  occasion  again  to  allude  to  this  subject,  in  speaking  of 
Dutch  street  effects. 

Fourthly.  It  will  generally  be  found  to  agree  best  with  the 
business-like  air  of  the  blue  country,  if  the  house  be  exces- 
sively simple,  and  apparently  altogether  the  minister  of  utility ; 
but,  where  it  is  to  be  extensive,  or  tall,  a  few  decorations  about 
the  upper  windows  are  desirable.  These  should  be  quiet  and 
severe  in  their  lines,  and  cut  boldly  in  the  brick  itself.  Some 
of  the  minor  streets  in  the  King  of  Sardinia's  capital  are  alto- 
gether of  brick,  very  richly  charged  with  carving,  with  excel- 
lent effect,  and  furnish  a  very  good  model.  Of  course,  no 
delicate  ornament  can  be  obtained,  and  no  classical  lines  can 
be  allowed  ;  for  we  should  be  horrified  by  seeing  that  in  brick 


THE  VILLA.  127 

which  we  have  been  accustomed  to  see  in  marble.  The  archi- 
tect must  be  left  to  his  own  taste  for  laying  on,  sparingly  and 
carefully,  a  few  dispositions  of  well-proportioned  lines  which 
are  all  that  can  ever  be  required. 

These  broad  principles  are  all  that  need  be  attended  to  in 
simple  blue  country  :  anything  will  look  well  in  it  which  is 
not  affected  ;  and  the  architect,  who  keeps  comfort  and  utility 
steadily  in  view,  and  runs  off  into  no  expatiations  of  fancy, 
need  never  be  afraid  here  of  falling  into  error. 

But  the  case  is  different  with  the  picturesque  blue  country.* 
Here,  owing  to  the  causes  mentioned  in  the  notes  at  p.  65,  we 
have  some  of  the  most  elevated  bits  of  landscape  character, 
which  the  country,  whatever  it  may  be,  can  afford.  Its  first 
and  most  distinctive  peculiarity  is  its  grace  ;  it  is  all  undulation 
and  variety  of  line,  one  curve  passing  into  another  with  the 
most  exquisite  softness,  rolling  away  into  faint  and  far  outlines 
of  various  depths  and  decision,  yet  none  hard  or  harsh  ;  and, 
in  all  probability,  rounded  off  in  the  near  ground  into  massy 
forms  of  partially  wooded  hill,  shaded  downwards  into  wind- 
ing dingles  or  cliffy  ravines,  each  form  melting  imperceptibly 
into  the  next,  without  an  edge  or  angle. 

Its  next  character  is  mystery.  It  is  a  country  peculiarly 
distinguished  by  its  possessing  features  of  great  sublimity  in 
the  distance,  without  giving  any  hint  in  the  foreground  of  their 
actual  nature.  A  range  of  mountain,  seen  from  a  mountain 
peak,  may  have  sublimity,  but  not  the  mystery  with  which  it 
is  invested,  when  seen  rising  over  the  farthest  surge  of  misty 
blue,  where  everything  near  is  soft  and  smiling,  totally  sepa- 
rated in  nature  from  the  consolidated  clouds  of  the  horizon. 
The  picturesque  blue  country  is  sure,  from  the  nature  of  the 
ground,  to  present  some  distance  of  this  kind,  so  as  never  to 
be  without  a  high  and  ethereal  mystery. 

The  third  and  last  distinctive  attribute  is  sensuality.  This 
is  a  startling  word,  and  requires  some  explanation.  In  the 

*  In  leaving  simple  blue  country,  we  hope  it  need  hardly  be  said  that 
we  leave  bricks  at  once  and  forever.  Nothing  can  excuse  them  out  of 
their  proper  territory. 


128  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

first  place,  every  line  is  voluptuous,  floating,  and  wavy  in  its 
form ;  deep,  rich,  and  exquisitely  soft  in  its  colour ;  drowsy 
in  its  effect,  like  slow,  wild  music  ;  letting  the  eye  repose  on 
it,  as  on  a  wreath  of  cloud,  without  one  feature  of  harshness 
to  hurt,  or  of  contrast  to  awaken.  In  the  second  place,  the 
cultivation,  which,  in  the  simple  blue  country,  has  the  forced 
formality  of  growth  which  evidently  is  to  supply  the  necessities 
of  man,  here  seems  to  leap  into  the  spontaneous  luxuriance  of 
life,  which  is  fitted  to  minister  to  his  pleasures.  The  surface 
of  the  earth  exults  with  animation,  especially  tending  to  the 
gratification  of  the  senses ;  and,  without  the  artificialness 
which  reminds  man  of  the  necessity  of  his  own  labour,  with- 
out the  opposing  influences  which  call  for  his  resistance,  with- 
out the  vast  energies  that  remind  him  of  his  impotence,  without 
the  sublimity  that  can  call  his  noblest  thoughts  into  action,  yet, 
with  every  perfection  that  can  tempt  him  to  indolence  of  en- 
joyment, and  with  such  abundant  bestowal  of  natural  gifts,  as 
might  seem  to  prevent  that  indolence  from  being  its  own 
punishment,  the  earth  appears  to  have  become  a  garden  of 
delight,  wherein  the  sweep  of  rthe  bright  hills,  without  chasm 
or  crag,  the  flow  of  the  bending  rivers,  without  rock  or  rapid, 
and  the  fruitfulness  of  the  fair  earth,  without  care  or  labour 
on  the  part  of  its  inhabitants,  appeal  to  the  most  pleasant 
passions  of  eye  and  sense,  calling  for  no  effort  of  body,  and  im- 
pressing no  fear  on  the  mind.  In  hill  country  we  have  a 
struggle  to  maintain  with  the  elements;  in  simple  blue,  we 
have  not  the  luxuriance  of  delight :  here,  and  here  only,  all 
nature  combines  to  breathe  over  us  a  lulling  slumber,  through 
which  life  degenerates  into  sensation. 

These  considerations  are  sufficient  to  explain  what  we  mean 
by  the  epithet  "  sensuality."  Now,  taking  these  three  dis- 
tinctive attributes,  the  mysterious,  the  graceful,  and  the  vo- 
luptuous, what  is  the  whole  character?  Very  nearly — the 
Greek :  for  these  attributes,  common  to  all  picturesque  blue 
country,  are  modified  in  the  degree  of  their  presence  by  every 
climate.  In  England,  they  are  all  low  in  their  tone ;  but  as 
we  go  southward,  the  voluptuousness  becomes  deeper  in  feel- 
ing, as  the  colours  of  the  earth  and  the  heaven  become  purer 


THE   VILLA.  129 

and  more  passionate,  and  "  the  purple  of  ocean  deepest  of 
dye  ; "  the  mystery  becomes  mightier,  for  the  greater  and 
more  universal  energy  of  the  beautiful  permits  its  features  to 
come  nearer,  and  to  rise  into  the  sublime,  without  causing 
fear.  It  is  thus  that  we  get  the  essence  of  the  Greek  feeling, 
as  it  was  embodied  in  their  finest  imaginations,  as  it  showed 
itself  in  the  works  of  their  sculptors  and  their  poets,  in  which 
sensation  was  made  almost  equal  with  thought,  and  deified  by 
its  nobility  of  association  ;  at  once  voluptuous,  refined,  dream- 
ily mysterious,  infinitely  beautiful.  Hence,  it  appears  that 
the  spirit  of  this  blue  country  is  essentially  Greek ;  though, 
in  England  and  in  other  northern  localities,  that  spirit  is  pos- 
sessed by  it  in  a  diminished  and  degraded  degree.  It  is  also 
the  natural  dominion  of  the  villa,  possessing  all  the  attributes 
which  attracted  the  Eomans,  when,  in  their  hours  of  idleness, 
they  lifted  the  light  arches  along  the  echoing  promontories  of 
Tiber.  It  is  especially  suited  to  the  expression  of  the  edifice 
of  pleasure  ;  and,  therefore,  is  most  capable  of  being  adorned 
by  it.  The  attention  of  every  one  about  to  raise  himself  a 
villa  of  any  kind  should,  therefore,  be  directed  to  this  kind  of 
country  ;  first,  as  that  in  which  he  will  not  be  felt  to  be  an  in- 
truder ;  secondly,  as  that  which  will,  in  all  probability,  afford 
him  the  greatest  degree  of  continuous  pleasure,  when  his  eye 
has  become  accustomed  to  the  features  of  the  locality.  To 
the  human  mind,  as  on  the  average  constituted,  the  features 
of  hill  scenery  will,  by  repetition,  become  tiresome,  and  of 
wood  scenery,  monotonous ;  while  the  simple  blue  can  possess 
little  interest  of  any  kind.  Powerful  intellect  will  generally 
take  perpetual  delight  in  hill  residence  ;  but  the  general  mind 
soon  feels  itself  oppressed  with  a  peculiar  melancholy  and 
weariness,  which  it  is  ashamed  to  own  ;  and  we  hear  our 
romantic  gentleman  begin  to  call  out  about  the  want  of  so- 
ciety, while,  if  the  animals  were  fit  to  live  where  they  have 
forced  themselves,  they  would  never  want  more  society  than 
that  of  a  grey  stone,  or  of  a  clear  pool  of  gushing  water.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  are  few  minds  so  degraded  as  not  to 
feel  greater  pleasure  in  the  picturesque  blue  than  in  any  other 
country.  Its  distance  has  generally  grandeur  enough  to  meet 

0 


130  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

tLeir  moods  of  aspiration ;  its  near  aspect  is  of  a  more  human 
interest  than  that  of  hill  country,  and  harmonises  more  truly 
with  the  domestic  feelings  which  are  common  to  all  mankind  ; 
so  that,  on  the  whole,  it  will  be  found  to  maintain  its  fresh- 
ness of  beauty  to  the  habituated  eye,  in  a  greater  degree  than 
any  other  scenery. 

As  it  thus  persuades  us  to  inhabit  it,  it  becomes  a  point  of 
honour  not  to  make  the  attractiveness  of  its  beauty  its  de- 
struction ;  especially  as,  being  the  natural  dominion  of  the 
villa,  it  affords  great  opportunity  for  the  architect  to  exhibit 
variety  of  design. 

Its  spirit  has  been  proved  to  be  Greek";  and  therefore, 
though  that  spirit  is  slightly  manifested  in  Britain,  and 
though  every  good  architect  is  shy  of  importation,  villas  on 
Greek  and  Roman  models  are  admissible  here.  Still,  as  in 
all  blue  country  there  is  much  activity  of  life,  the  principle 
of  utility  should  be  kept  in  view,  and  the  building  should 
have  as  much  simplicity  as  can  be  united  with  perfect  grace- 
fulness of  line.  It  appears  from  the  principles  of  composition 
alluded  to  in  speaking  of  the  Italian  villa,  that  in  undulating 
country  the  forms  should  be  square  and  massy  ;  and,  where 
the  segments  of  curves  are  small,  the  buildings  should  be  low 
and  flat,  while  they  may  be  prevented  from  appearing  cum- 
brous by  some  well-managed  irregularity  of  design,  which 
will  be  agreeable  to  the  inhabitant  as  well  as  to  the  spectator  ; 
enabling  him  to  change  the  aspect  and  size  of  his  chamber, 
as  temperature  or  employment  may  render  such  change  desir- 
able, without  being  foiled  in  his  design,  by  finding  the  apart- 
ments of  one  wing  matched  foot  to  foot,  by  those  of  the  other. 
For  the  colour,  it  has  been  shown  that  white  or  pale  tints  are 
agreeable  in  all  blue  country  :  but  there  must  be  warmth  in 
it,  and  a  great  deal  too,  grey  being  comfortless  and  useless 
with  a  cold  distance  ;  but  it  must  not  be  raw  nor  glaring.* 

*  The  epithet  "raw,"  by  the  by,  is  vague,  and  needs  definition. 
Every  tint  is  raw  which  is  perfectly  opaque,  and  has  not  all  the  three 
primitive  colours  in  its  composition.  Thus,  black  is  always  raw,  be- 
cause it  has  no  colour  ;  white  never,  because  it  has  all  colours.  No  tint 
can  be  raw  which  is  not  opaque  :  and  opacity  may  be  taken  away, 


THE  VILLA.  131 

The  roof  and  chimneys  should  be  kept  out  of  sight  as  much 
as  possible  ;  and,  therefore,  the  one  very  flat,  and  the  other 
very  plain.  We  ought  to  revive  the  Greek  custom  of  roofing 
with  thin  slabs  of  coarse  marble,  cut  into  the  form  of  tiles. 
However,  where  the  architect  finds  he  has  a  very  cold  dis- 
tance, and  few  trees  about  the  building,  and  where  it  stands 
so  high  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  its  being  looked 
down  upon,  he  will,  if  he  be  courageous,  use  a  very  flat  roof 
of  the  dark  Italian  tile.  The  eaves,  which  are  all  that  should 
be  seen,  will  be  peculiarly  graceful ;  and  the  sharp  contrast 
of  colour  (for  this  tiling  can  only  be  admitted  with  white 
•walls)  may  be  altogether  avoided,  by  letting  them  cast  a 
strong  shadow,  and  by  running  the  walls  up  into  a  range  of 
low  garret  windows,  to  break  the  horizontal  line  of  the  roof. 
He  will  thus  obtain  a  bit  of  very  strong  colour,  which  will  im- 
part a  general  glow  of  cheerfulness  to  the  building,  and 
which,  if  he  manages  it  rightly,  will  not  be  glaring  or  intru- 
sive. It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that  he  can  only  do  this 
with  villas  of  the  most  humble  order,  and  that  he  will  seldom 
find  his  employer  possessed  of  so  much  common  sense  as  to 
put  up  with  a  tile  roof.  When  this  is  the  case,  the  flat  slabs 
of  the  upper  limestone  (ragstone)  are  usually  better  than  slate. 
For  the  rest,  it  is  always  to  be  kept  in  view,  that  the  pre- 
vailing character  of  the  whole  is  to  be  that  of  graceful  sim- 

either  by  actual  depth  and  transparency,  as  in  the  sky  ;  by  lustre  and 
texture,  as  in  the  case  of  silk  and  velvet,  or  by  variety  of  shade,  as  in 
forest  verdure.  Two  instances  will  be  sufficient  to  prove  the  truth  of 
this.  Brick,  when  first  fired,  is  always  raw ;  but,  when  it  has  been  a 
little  weathered,  it  acquires  a  slight  blue  tint,  assisted  by  the  grey  of  the 
mortar  ;  incipient  vegetation  affords  it  the  yellow.  It  thus  obtains  an 
admixture  of  the  three  colours,  and  is  raw  no  longer.  An  old  woman's 
red  cloak,  though  glaring,  is  never  raw  ;  for  it  must,  of  necessity,  have 
folded  shades ;  those  shades  are  of  a  rich  grey  :  no  grey  can  exist  with- 
out yellow  and  blue.  We  thus  have  three  colours,  and  no  rawness.  It 
must  be  observed,  however,  that,  when  any  one  of  the  colours  is  given 
in  so  slight  a  degree,  that  it  can  be  overpowered  by  certain  effects  of 
light,  the  united  colour,  when  opaque,  will  be  raw.  Thus,  many 
flesh-colours  are  raw  ;  because,  though  they  must  have  a  little  blue  in 
their  composition,  it  is  too  little  to  be  efficiently  visible  in  a  strong  light. 


132  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

plicity ;  distinguished  from  the  simplicity  of  the  Italian  edifice, 
by  being  that  of  utility  instead  of  that  of  pride.*  Conse- 
quently, the  building  must  not  be  Gothic  or  Elizabethan ;  it 
may  be  as  commonplace  as  the  proprietor  likes,  provided  its 
proportions  be  good  ;  but  nothing  can  ever  excuse  one  acute 
angle,  or  one  decorated  pinnacle,  both  being  direct  interrup- 
tions of  the  repose  with  which  the  eye  is  indulged  by  the  un- 
dulations of  the  surrounding  scenery.  Tower  and  fortress 
outlines  are,  indeed,  agreeable,  from  their  fine  grouping  and 
roundness  ;  but  we  do  not  allude  to  them,  because  nothing 
can  be  more  absurd  than  the  humour  prevailing  at  the  present 
day  among  many  of  our  peaceable  old  gentlemen,  who  never 
smelt  powder  in  their  lives,  to  eat  their  morning  muffin  in  a 
savage-looking  round  tower,  and  admit  quiet  old  ladies  to  a 
tea-party  under  the  range  of  twenty-six  cannon,  which,  it  is 
lucky  for  the  china,  are  all  wooden  ones,  as  they  are,  in  all 
probability,  accurately  and  awfully  pointed  into  the  drawing- 
room  windows. 

So  much,  then,  for  our  British  blue  country,  to  which  it 
was  necessary  to  devote  some  time,  as  occupying  a  consider- 
able portion  of  the  island,  and  being  peculiarly  well  adapted 
for  villa  residences.  The  woody,  or  green  country,  which  is 
next  in  order,  was  spoken  of  before,  and  was  shown  to  be 
especially  our  own.  The  Elizabethan  was  pointed  out  as  the 
style  peculiarly  belonging  to  it ;  and  farther  criticism  of  that 
style  was  deferred  until  we  came  to  the  consideration  of  do- 
mestic buildings  provided  with  the  means  of  defence.  We 
have,  therefore,  at  present  only  to  offer  a  few  remarks  on  the 
principles  to  be  observed  in  the  erection  of  Elizabethan  villaa 
at  the  present  day. 

First.  The  building  must  be  either  quite  chaste,  or  exces- 
sively rich  in  decoration.  Every  inch  of  ornament  short  of  a 
certain  quantity  will  render  the  whole  effect  poor  and  ridicu- 

*  There  must  always  be  a  difficulty  in  building  in  picturesque  blue 
country  in  England  ;  for  the  English  character  is  opposed  to  that  of  the 
country  ;  it  is  neither  graceful,  nor  mysterious,  nor  voluptuous  ;  there- 
fore, what  we  cede  to  the  country,  we  take  from  the  nationality,  and 
vict  ' 


THE   VILLA.  133 

lous  ;  while  the  pure  perpendicular  lines  of  this  architecture 
will  always  look  well  if  left  entirely  alone.  The  architect, 
therefore,  when  limited  as  to  expense,  should  content  himself 
with  making  his  oriels  project  boldly,  channelling  their  mul- 
lions  richly,  and,  in  general,  rendering  his  vertical  lines  deli- 
cate and  beautiful  in  their  workmanship  ;  but,  if  his  estimate 
be  unlimited,  he  should  lay  on  his  ornament  richly,  taking 
care  never  to  confuse  the  eye.  Those  parts  to  which,  of  ne- 
cessity, observation  is  especially  directed,  must  be  finished  so 
as  to  bear  a  close  scrutiny,  that  the  eye  may  rest  on  them  with 
satisfaction  :  but  their  finish  must  not  be  of  a  character  which 
would  have  attracted  the  eye  by  itself,  without  being  placed 
in  a  conspicuous  situation  ;  for,  if  it  were,  the  united  attrac- 
tion of  form  and  detail  would  confine  the  contemplation  alto- 
gether to  the  parts  so  distinguished,  and  render  it  impossi- 
ble for  the  mind  to  receive  any  impression  of  general  effect. 
Consequently,  the  parts  that  project,  and  are  to  bear  a  strong 
light,  must  be  chiseled  with  infinite  delicacy  ;  so  that  the  or- 
nament, though  it  would  have  remained  unobserved,  had  the 
eye  not  been  guided  to  it,  when  observed,  may  be  of  dis- 
tinguished beauty  and  power  ;  but  those  parts  which  are  to 
be  flat,  and  in  shade,  should  be  marked  with  great  sharpness 
and  boldness,  that  the  impression  may  be  equalised.  When, 
for  instance,  we  have  to  do  with  oriels,  to  which  attention  is 
immediately  attracted  by  their  projection,  we  may  run  wreaths 
of  the  finest  flowered-work  up  the  mullions,  charge  the  ter- 
minations with  shields,  and  quarter  them  richly ;  but  we 
must  join  the  window  to  the  wall,  where  its  shadow  falls,  by 
means  of  more  deep  and  decided  decoration. 

Secondly.  In  the  choice  and  design  of  his  ornaments,  the 
architect  should  endeavour  to  be  grotesque  rather  than  grace- 
ful (though  little  bits  of  soft  flower-work  here  and  there  will 
relieve  the  eye) ;  but  he  must  not  imagine  he  can  be  grotesque 
by  carving  faces  with  holes  for  eyes  and  knobs  for  noses  ;  on 
the  contrary,  wherever  he  mimics  grotesque  life,  there  should 
be  wit  and  humour  in  every  feature,  fun  and  frolic  in  every 
attitude ;  every  distortion  should  be  anatomical,  and  every 
monster  a  studied  combination.  This  is  a  question,  however, 


134  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

relating  more  nearly  to  Gothic  architecture,  and,  therefore, 
we  shall  not  enter  into  it  at  present. 

Thirdly.  The  gables  must,  on  no  account,  be  jagged  into 
a  succession  of  right  angles,  as  if  people  were  to  be  perpetu- 
ally engaged  in  trotting  up  one  side  and  down  the  other. 
This  custom,  though  sanctioned  by  authority,  has  very  little 
apology  to  offer  for  itself,  based  on  any  principle  of  composi- 
tion. In  street  effect,  indeed,  it  is  occasionally  useful ;  and, 
where  the  verticals  below  are  unbroken  by  ornament,  may  be 
used  even  in  the  detached  Elizabethan,  but  not  when  decora- 
tion has  been  permitted  below.  They  should  then  be  carried 
up  in  curved  lines,  alternating  with  two  angles,  or  three  at  the 
most,  without  pinnacles  or  hip-knobs.  A  hollow  parapet  is 
far  better  than  a  battlement,  in  the  intermediate  spaces ;  the 
latter,  indeed,  is  never  allowable,  except  when  the  building 
has  some  appearance  of  being  intended  for  defence,  and, 
therefore,  is  generally  barbarous  in  the  villa,  while  the  parapet 
admits  of  great  variety  of  effect. 

Lastly.  Though  the  grotesque  of  Elizabethan  architecture 
is  adapted  for  wood  country,  the  grotesque  of  the  clipped 
garden,  which  frequently  accompanies  it,  is  not.  The  custom 
of  clipping  trees  into  fantastic  forms  is  always  to  be  repre- 
hended :  first,  because  it  never  can  produce  the  true  grotesque, 
for  the  material  is  not  passive,  and,  therefore,  a  perpetual 
sense  of  restraint  is  induced,  while  the  great  principle  of  the 
grotesque  is  action  ;  again,  because  we  have  a  distinct  percep- 
tion of  two  natures,  the  one  neutralising  the  other  ;  for  the 
vegetable  organisation  is  too  palpable  to  let  the  animal  form 
suggest  its  true  idea  ;  again,  because  the  great  beauty  of  all 
foliage  is  the  energy  of  life  and  action,  of  which  it  loses  the 
appearance  by  formal  clipping  ;  and  again,  because  the  hands 
of  the  gardener  will  never  produce  anything  really  spirited  or 
graceful.  Much,  however,  need  not  be  said  on  this  subject ; 
for  the  taste  of  the  public  does  not  now  prompt  them  to  such 
fettering  of  fair  freedom,  and  we  should  be  as  sorry  to  see 
the  characteristic  vestiges  of  it,  which  still  remain  in  a  few 
gardens,  lost  altogether,  as  to  see  the  thing  again  becoming 
common. 


THE  VILLA.  135 

The  garden  of  the  Elizabethan  villa,  then,  should  be  laid 
out  with  a  few  simple  terraces  near  the  house,  so  as  to  unite 
it  well  with  the  ground  ;  lines  of  balustrade  along  the  edges, 
guided  away  into  the  foliage  of  the  taller  trees  of  the  garden, 
with  the  shadows  falling  at  intervals.  The  balusters  should 
be  square  rather  than  round,  with  the  angles  outwards ;  and, 
if  the  balustrade  looks  unfinished  at  the  corners,  it  may  be 
surmounted  by  a  grotesque  bit  of  sculpture,  of  any  kind ;  but 
it  must  be  very  strong  and  deep  in  its  carved  lines,  and  must 
not  be  large  ;  and  all  graceful  statues  are  to  be  avoided,  for 
the  reasons  mentioned  in  speaking  of  the  Italian  villa :  neither 
is  the  terraced  part  of  the  garden  to  extend  to  any  distance 
from  the  house,  nor  to  have  deep  flights  of  steps,  for  they  are 
sure  to  get  mossy  and  slippery,  if  not  superintended  with 
troublesome  care ;  and  the  rest  of  the  garden  should  have 
more  trees  than  flowers  in  it.  A  flower-garden  is  an  ugly 
thing,  even  when  best  managed  :  it  is  an  assembly  of  unfort- 
unate beings,  pampered  and  bloated  above  their  natural  size, 
stewed  and  heated  into  diseased  growth ;  corrupted  by  evil 
communication  into  speckled  and  inharmonious  colours  ;  torn 
from  the  soil  which  they  loved,  and  of  which  they  were  the 
spirit  and  the  glory,  to  glare  away  their  term  of  tormented 
life  among  the  mixed  and  incongruous  essences  of  each  other, 
in  earth  that  they  know  not,  and  in  air  that  is  poison  to  them. 

The  florist  may  delight  in  this :  the  true  lover  of  flowers 
never  will.  He  who  has  taken  lessons  from  nature,  who  has 
observed  the  real  purpose  and  operation  of  flowers ;  how  they 
flush  forth  from  the  brightness  of  the  earth's  being,  as  the 
melody  rises  up  from  among  the  moved  strings  of  the  instru- 
ment ;  how  the  wildness  of  their  pale  colours  passes  over  her, 
like  the  evidence  of  a  various  emotion  ;  how  the  quick  fire  of 
their  life  and  their  delight  glows  along  the  green  banks,  where 
the  dew  falls  the  thickest,  and  the  low  mists  of  incense  pass 
slowly  through  the  twilight  of  the  leaves,  and  the  intertwined 
roots  make  the  earth  tremble  with  strange  joy  at  the  feeling 
of  their  motion ;  he  who  has  watched  this  will  never  take 
away  the  beauty  of  their  being  to  mix  into  meretricious  glare, 
or  to  feed  into  an  existence  of  disease.  And  the  flower-gar- 


136  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

den  is  as  ugly  in  effect  as  it  is  unnatural  in  feeling  :  it  never 
•will  harmonise  with  anything,  and,  if  people  will  have  it, 
should  be  kept  out  of  sight  until  they  get  into  it.  But,  in 
laying  out  the  garden  which  is  to  assist  the  effect  of  the  build- 
ing, we  must  observe,  and  exclusively  use,  the  natural  combi- 
nation of  flowers.*  Now,  as  far  as  we  are  aware,  bluish  pur- 
ple is  the  only  flower  colour  which  nature  ever  uses  in  masses 
of  distant  effect ;  this,  however,  she  does  in  the  case  of  most 
heathers,  with  the  Khododendron  ferrugineum,  and,  less  ex- 
tensively, with  the  colder  colour  of  the  wood  hyacinth.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  large  rhododendron  may  be  used  to  almost  any 
extent,  in  masses ;  the  pale  varieties  of  the  rose  more  spar- 
ingly ;  and,  on  the  turf,  the  wild  violet  and  pansy  should  be 
sown  by  chance,  so  that  they  may  grow  in  undulations  of  colour, 
and  should  be  relieved  by  a  few  primroses.  All  dahlias,  tulips, 
ranunculi,  and,  in  general,  what  are  called  florist's  flowers, 
should  be  avoided  like  garlic. 

*  Every  one  who  is  about  to  lay  out  a  limited  extent  of  garden,  in 
which  he  wishes  to  introduce  many  flowers,  should  read  and  attentively 
study,  first  Shelley,  and  next  Shakspeare.  The  latter,  indeed,  induces 
the  most  beautiful  connexions  between  thought  and  flower  that  can  be 
found  in  the  whole  range  of  European  literature  ;  but  he  very  often 
uses  the  symbolical  effect  of  the  flower,  which  it  can  only  have  on  the 
educated  mind,  instead  of  the  natural  and  true  effect  of  the  flower, 
which  it  must  have,  more  or  less,  upon  every  mind.  Thus,  when 
Ophelia,  presenting  her  wild  flowers,  says:  "There's  rosemary,  that's 
for  remembrance ;  pray  you  love,  remember :  and  there  is  pansies, 
that's  for  thoughts:  "  the  infinite  beauty  of  the  passage  depends  upon 
the  arbitrary  meaning  attached  to  the  flowers.  But,  when  Shelley 

speaks  of 

"  The  lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passion  BO  pale, 
That  the  light  of  her  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilion  of  tender  green," 

he  is  etherealising  an  impression  which  the  mind  naturally  receives 
from  the  flower.  Consequently,  as  it  is  only  by  their  natural  influence 
that  flowers  can  address  the  mind  through  the  eye,  we  must  read  Shel- 
ley, to  learn  how  to  iise  flowers,  and  Shakspeare,  to  learn  to  love  them. 
In  both  writers  we  find  the  wild  flower  possessing  soul  as  well  as  life, 
and  mingling  its  influence  most  intimately,  like  an  untaught  melody, 
with  the  deepest  and  most  secret  streams  of  human  emotion. 


THE  VILLA.  137 

Perhaps  we  should  apologise  for  introducing  this  in  the 
Architectural  Magazine  ;  but  it  is  not  out  of  place  :  the  garden 
is  almost  a  necessary  adjunct  of  the  Elizabethan  villa,  and  all 
garden  architecture  is  utterly  useless  unless  it  be  assisted  by 
the  botanical  effect. 

These,  then,  are  a  few  of  the  more  important  principles  of 
architecture,  which  are  to  be  kept  in  view  in  the  blue  and  in 
the  green  country.  The  wild,  or  grey,  country  is  never  selected, 
in  Britain,  as  the  site  of  a  villa ;  and,  therefore,  it  only  re- 
mains for  us  to  offer  a  few  remarks  on  a  subject  as  difficult  as 
it  is  interesting  and  important,  the  architecture  of  the  villa 
in  British  hill,  or  brown,  country. 


V.  The  British  Villa.     Hill,  or  Brown,  Country. — Principles  of 
Composition. 

"  Vivite  content!  casulis  et  collibus  istis.'' — Juvenal. 

IN  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  just  at  the  turning  into  the 
Rue  la  Paix  (in  Paris),  there  stand  a  few  dusky  and  withered 
trees,  beside  a  kind  of  dry  ditch,  paved  at  the  bottom,  into 
which  a  carriage  can  with  some  difficulty  descend,  and  which 
affords  access  (not  in  an  unusual  manner)  to  the  ground  floor  of 
a  large  and  dreary-looking  house,  whose  passages  are  dark 
and  confined,  whose  rooms  are  limited  in  size,  and  whose  win- 
dows command  an  interesting  view  of  the  dusty  trees  before 
mentioned.  This  is  the  town  residence  of  one  of  the  Italian 
noblemen,  whose  country  house  has  already  been  figured  as  a 
beautiful  example  of  the  villas  of  the  Lago  di  Como.  That 
villa,  however,  though  in  one  of  the  loveliest  situations  that 
hill,  and  wave,  and  heaven  ever  combined  to  adorn,  and  though 
itself  one  of  the  most  delicious  habitations  that  luxury  ever 
projected,  or  wealth  procured,  is  very  rarely  honoured  by  the 
presence  of  its  master ;  while  attractions  of  a  very  different 
nature  retain  him,  winter  after  winter,  in  the  dark  chambers 
of  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens.  This  appears  singular  to  the 


138  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

casual  traveller,  who  darts  down  from  the  dust  and  heat  of 
the  French  capital  to  the  light  and  glory  of  the  Italian  lakes, 
and  finds  the  tall  marble  chambers  and  orange  groves,  in  which 
he  thinks,  were  he  possessed  of  them,  he  could  luxuriate  for 
ever,  left  desolate  and  neglected  by  their  real  owner :  but, 
were  he  to  try  such  a  residence  for  a  single  twelvemonth,  we 
believe  his  wonder  would  have  greatly  diminished  at  the  end 
of  the  time.  For  the  mind  of  the  nobleman  in  question  does 
not  differ  from  that  of  the  average  of  men  ;  inasmuch  as  it  is 
a  well-known  fact,  that  a  series  of  sublime  impressions,  con- 
tinued indefinitely,  gradually  pall  upon  the  imagination, deaden 
its  fineness  of  feeling,  and,  in  the  end,  induce  a  gloomy  and 
morbid  state  of  mind,  a  reaction  of  a  peculiarly  melancholy 
character,  because  consequent,  not  upon  the  absence  of  that 
which  once  caused  excitement,  but  upon  the  failure  of  its 
power.  This  is  not  the  case  with  all  men ;  but  with  those 
over  whom  the  sublimity  of  an  unchanging  scene  can  retain  its 
power  for  ever,  we  have  nothing  to  do  ;  for  they  know  better 
than  any  architect  can,  how  to  choose  their  scene,  and  how  to 
add  to  its  effect :  we  have  only  to  impress  upon  them  the  pro- 
priety of  thinking  before  they  build,  and  of  keeping  their  hu- 
mours under  the  control  of  their  judgment.  It  is  not  of  them, 
but  of  the  man  of  average  intellect,  that  we  are  thinking 
throughout  all  these  papers  ;  and  upon  him  it  cannot  be  too 
strongly  impressed  that  there  are  very  few  points  in  a  hill 
country  at  all  adapted  for  a  permanent  residence.  There  is 
a  kind  of  instinct,  indeed,  by  which  men  become  aware  of  this, 
and  shrink  from  the  sterner  features  of  hill  scenery  into  the 
parts  possessing  a  human  interest ;  and  thus  we  find  the  north 
side  of  the  Lake  Leman,  from  Vevay  to  Geneva,  which  is  about 
as  monotonous  a  bit  of  vine  country  as  any  in  Europe,  studded 
with  villas  ;  while  the  south  side,  which  is  as  exquisite  a  piece 
of  scenery  as  is  to  be  found  in  all  Switzerland,  possesses,  we 
think,  two.  The  instinct,  in  this  case  is  true  ;  but  we  fre- 
quently find  it  in  error.  Thus,  the  Lake  of  Como  is  the  resort 
of  half  Italy,  while  the  Lago  Maggiore  possesses  scarcely  one 
villa  of  importance,  besides  those  on  the  Borromean  Islands. 
Yet  the  Lago  Maggiore  is  far  better  adapted  for  producing 


THE   VILLA.  139 

and  sustaining  a  pleasurable  impression,  than  that  of  Como. 
The  first  thing,  then,  which  the  architect  has  to  do  in  hill 
country  is,  to  bring  his  employer  down  from  heroics  to  com- 
mon sense  ;  to  teach  him  that,  although  it  might  be  very  well 
for  a  man  like  Pliny,  whose  whole  spirit  and  life  was  wrapt 
up  in  that  of  nature,  to  set  himself  down  under  the  splash  of 
a  cascade  400  ft.  high,  such  escapades  are  not  becoming  in 
English  gentlemen  ;  and  that  it  is  necessary,  for  his  own  satis- 
faction, as  well  as  that  of  others,  that  he  should  keep  in  the 
most  quiet  and  least  pretending  corners  of  the  landscape  which 
he  has  chosen. 

Having  got  his  employer  well  under  control,  he  has  two 
points  to  consider.  First,  where  he  will  spoil  least ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, where  he  will  gain  most.  Now,  we  may  spoil  a  land- 
scape in  two  ways ;  either  by  destroying  an  association  con- 
nected with  it,  or  a  beauty  inherent  in  it.  With  the  first 
barbarism  we  have  nothing  to  do  ;  for  it  is  one  which  would 
not  be  permitted  on  a  large  scale  ;  and,  even  if  it  were,  could 
not  be  perpetrated  by  any  man  of  the  slightest  education. 
No  one,  having  any  pretensions  to  be  called  a  human  being, 
would  build  himself  a  house  on  the  meadow  of  the  Rutlin,  or 
by  the  farm  of  La  Haye  Sainte,  or  on  the  lonely  isle  on  Loch 
Katrine.  Of  the  injustice  of  the  second  barbarism  we  have 
spoken  already  ;  and  it  is  the  object  of  this  paper  to  show 
how  it  may  be  avoided,  as  well  as  to  develope  the  principles 
by  which  we  may  be  guided  in  the  second  question  ;  that  of 
ascertaining  how  much  permanent  pleasure  will  be  received 
from  the  contemplation  of  a  given  scene. 

It  is  very  fortunate  that  the  result  of  these  several  investi- 
gations will  generally  be  found  the  same.  The  residence 
which,  in  the  end,  is  found  altogether  delightful,  will  be  found 
to  have  been  placed  where  it  has  committed  no  injury  ;  and, 
therefore,  the  best  way  of  consulting  our  own  convenience  in 
the  end  is,  to  consult  the  feelings  of  the  spectator  in  the  be- 
ginning.* Now,  the  first  grand  rule  for  the  choice  of  situation 

*  For  instance,  one  proprietor  terrifies  the  landscape  all  round  him, 
within  a  range  of  three  miles,  by  the  conspicuous  position  of  his  habita- 
tion ;  and  is  punished  by  finding  that,  from  whatever  quarter  the  wind 


140  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

is,  never  to  build  a  villa  where  the  ground  is  not  richly  pro- 
ductive. It  is  not  enough  that  it  should  be  capable  of  produc- 
ing a  crop  of  scanty  oats  or  turnips  in  a  fine  season  ;  it  must 
be  rich  and  luxuriant,  and  glowing  with  vegetative  power  *  of 
one  kind  or  another.  For  the  very  chief  est  f  part  of  the  char- 
acter of  the  edifice  of  pleasure  is,  and  must  be,  its  perfect  ease, 
its  appearance  of  felicitous  repose.  This  it  can  never  have 
where  the  nature  and  expression  of  the  land  near  it  reminds 
us  of  the  necessity  of  labour,  and  where  the  earth  is  nig- 
gardly of  all  that  constitutes  its  beauty  and  our  pleasure  ; 
this  it  can  only  have,  where  the  presence  of  man  seems  the 
natural  consequence  of  an  ample  provision  for  his  enjoyment, 
not  the  continuous  struggle  of  suffering  existence  with  a 
rude  heaven  and  rugged  soil.  There  is  nobility  in  such  a 
struggle,  but  not  when  it  is  maintained  by  the  inhabitant  of 
the  villa,  in  whom  it  is  unnatural,  and  therefore  injurious  in 
its  effect.  The  narrow  cottage  on  the  desolate  moor,  or  the 
stalwart  hospice  on  the  crest  of  the  Alps,  each  leaves  an  en- 
nobling impression  of  energy  and  endurance  ;  but  the  posses- 
sor of  the  villa,  should  call,  not  upon  our  admiration,  but 
upon  our  sympathy  ;  and  his  function  is  to  deepen  the  impres- 
sion of  the  beauty  and  the  fulness  of  creation,  not  to  exhibit 
the  majesty  of  man  ;  to  show,  in  the  intercourse  of  earth  and 
her  children,  not  how  her  severity  may  be  mocked  by  their 

may  blow,  it  sends  in  some  of  his  plate-glass.  Another  spoils  a  pretty 
bit  of  crag,  by  building  below  it,  and  has  two  or  three  tons  of  stone 
dropped  through  his  roof,  the  first  frosty  night.  Another  occupies  the 
turfy  slope  of  some  soft  lake  promontory,  and  has  his  cook  washed  away 
by  the  first  flood.  We  do  not  remember  ever  having  seen  a  dwelling- 
house  destroying  the  effect  of  a  landscape,  of  which,  considered  merely 
as  a  habitation,  we  should  wish  to  be  the  possessor. 

*  We  are  not  thinking  of  the  effect  upon  the  human  frame  of  the  air 
which  is  favourable  to  vegetation.  Chemically  considered,  the  bracing 
breeze  of  the  more  sterile  soil  is  the  most  conducive  to  health,  and  is 
practically  so,  when  the  frame  is  not  perpetually  exposed  to  it  ;  but  the 
keenness  which  checks  the  growth  of  the  plant  is,  in  all  probability, 
trying,  to  say  the  least,  to  the  constitution  of  a  resident. 

f  We  hope  the  English  language  may  long  retain  this  corrupt  but 
energetic  superlative. 


THE   VILLA.  141 

heroism,  but  how  her  bounty  may  be  honoured  in  their  en- 
joyment. 

This  position,  being  once  granted,  will  save  us  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  ;  for  it  will  put  out  of  our  way,  as  totally  unfit  for 
villa  residence,  nine-tenths  of  all  mountain  scenery  ;  beginning 
with  such  bleak  and  stony  bits  of  hillside  as  that  which  was 
metamorphosed  into  something  like  a  forest  by  the  author  of 
Waverley  ;  laying  an  equal  veto  on  ah1  the  severe  landscapes  of 
such  districts  of  minor  mountain  as  the  Scotch  Highlands  and 
North  Wales ;  and  finishing  by  setting  aside  all  the  higher 
sublimity  of  Alp  and  Apennine.  What,  then,  has  it  left  us  ? 
The  gentle  slope  of  the  lake  shore,  and  the  spreading  parts  of 
the  quiet  valley,  in  almost  all  scenery  ;  and  the  shores  of  the 
Cumberland  lakes  in  our  own,  distinguished  as  they  are  by  a 
richness  of  soil,  which  though  generally  manifested  only  in  an 
exquisite  softness  of  pasture,  and  roundness  of  undulation,  is 
sufficiently  evident  to  place  them  out  of  the  sweeping  range 
of  this  veto. 

Now,  as  we  only  have  to  do  with  Britain,  at  present,  we 
shall  direct  particular  attention  to  the  Cumberland  lakes,  na 
they  are  the  only  mountain  district  which,  taken  generally,  is 
adapted  for  the  villa  residence,  and  as  every  piece  of  scenery 
which  in  other  districts  is  so  adapted,  resembles  them  in 
character  and  tone. 

We  noticed,  in  speaking  of  the  Westmoreland  cottage,  the 
feeling  of  humility  with  which  we  are  impressed  during  a 
mountain  ramble.  Now,  it  is  nearly  impossible  for  a  villa  of 
large  size,  however  placed,  not  to  disturb  and  interrupt  this 
necessary  and  beautiful  impression,  particularly  where  the 
scenery  is  on  a  very  small  scale.  This  disadvantage  may  be 
obviated  in  some  degree,  as  we  shall  see,  by  simplicity  of 
architecture  ;  but  another,  dependent,  on  a  question  of  pro- 
portion, is  inevitable.  When  an  object,  in  which  magnitude 
is  a  desirable  attribute,  leaves  an  impression,  on  a  practised 
eye,  of  less  magnitude  than  it  really  possesses,  we  should 
place  objects  beside  it,  of  whose  magnitude  we  can  satisfy 
ourselves,'  of  larger  size  than  that  which  we  are  accustomed 
to  ;  for,  by  finding  these  large  objects  in  precisely  the  pro- 


14:2  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

portion  to  the  grand  object,  to  which  we  are  accustomed, 
while  we  know  their  actual  size  to  be  one  to  which  we  are  not 
accustomed,  we  become  aware  of  the  true  magnitude  of  the 
principal  feature.  But  where  the  object  leaves  a  true  impres- 
sion of  its  size  on  the  practised  eye,  we  shall  do  harm  by  ren- 
dering minor  objects  either  larger  or  smaller  than  they 
usually  are.  Where  the  object  leaves  an  impression  of 
greater  magnitude  than  it  really  possesses,  we  must  render 
the  minor  objects  smaller  than  they  usually  are,  to  prevent 
our  being  undeceived.  Now,  a  mountain  of  15,000  ft.  high 
always  looks  lower,  than  it  really  is  ;  therefore,  the  larger  the 
buildings  near  it  are  rendered,  the  better.  Thus,  in  speaking 
of  the  Swiss  cottage,  it  was  observed  that  a  building  of  the 
size  of  St.  Peter's  in  its  place,  would  exhibit  the  size  of  the 
mountains  more  truly  and  strikingly.  A  mountain  7,000  ft. 
high  strikes  its  impression  with  great  truth,  we  are  deceived 
on  neither  side  ;  therefore,  the  building  near  it  should  be  of 
the  average  size  ;  and  thus  the  villas  of  the  Lago  di  Como, 
being  among  hills  from  6,000  to  8,000  ft.  high,  are  well  pro- 
portioned, being  neither  colossal  nor  diminutive :  but  a 
mountain  3,000  ft.  high  always  looks  higher  than  it  really 
is  ;  *  therefore,  the  buildings  near  it  should  be  smaller  than 

*  This  position  as  well  as  the  two  preceding,  is  important,  and  in  need 
of  confirmation.  It  has  often  been  observed,  that,  when  the  eye  is 
altogether  unpractised  in  estimating  elevation,  it  believes  every  point  to 
be  lower  than  it  really  is  ;  but  this  droes  not  militate  against  the  propo- 
sition, for  it  is  also  well  known,  that  the  higher  the  point,  the  greater 
the  deception.  But  when  the  eye  is  thoroughly  practised  in  mountain 
measurement,  although  the  judgment,  arguing  from  technical  knowl- 
edge, gives  a  true  result,  the  impression  on  the  feelings  is  always  at 
variance  with  it,  except  in  hills  of  the  middle  height.  We  are  perpetu- 
ally astonished,  in  our  own  country,  by  the  sublime  impression  left  by 
such  hills  as  Skiddaw,  or  Cader  Idris,  or  Ben  Venue  ;  perpetually 
vexed,  in  Switzerland,  by  finding  that,  setting  aside  circumstances  of 
form  and  colour,  the  abstract  impression  of  elevation'  is  (except  in  some 
moments  of  peculiar  effect  worth  a  king's  ransom)  inferior  to  the  truth. 
We  were  standing  the  other  day  on  the  slope  of  the  Brevent,  above  the 
Prieure  of  Chamouni,  with  a  companion,  well  practised  in  climbing 
Highland  hills,  but  a  stranger  among  the  Alps.  Pointing  out  a  rock 
above  the  Glacier  des  Bossous,  we  ruquested  an  opinion  of  its  height. 


TEE   VILLA.  143 

the  average.  And  this  is  what  is  meant  by  the  proportion  of 
objects  ;  namely,  rendering  them  of  such  relative  size  as  shall 
produce  the  greatest  possible  impression  of  those  attributes 
•which  are  most  desirable  in  both.  It  is  not  the  true,  but  the 
desirable  impression  which  is  to  be  conveyed  ;  and  it  must 
not  be  in  one,  but  in  both  :  the  building  must  not  be  over- 
whelmed by  the  mass  of  the  mountain,  nor  the  precipice 
mocked  by  the  elevation  of  the  cottage.  (Proportion  of  colour 
is  a  question  of  quite  a  different  nature,  dependent  merely  on 
admixture  and  combination./  For  these  reasons,  buildings 
of  a  very  large  size  are  decidedly  destructive  of  effect  among 
the  English  lakes  :  first,  because  apparent  altitudes  are  much 
diminished  by  them  ;  and,  secondly,  because,  whatever  posi- 
tion they  may  be  placed  in,  instead  of  combining  with  sce- 
nery, they  occupy  and  overwhelm  it :  for  all  scenery  is  divided 
into  pieces,  each  of  which  has  a  near  bit  of  beauty,  a  promon- 
tory of  lichened  crag,  or  a  smooth  swarded  knoll,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind  to  begin  with.  Wherever  the  large  villa 
comes,  it  takes  up  one  of  these  beginnings  of  landscape  alto- 
gether ;  and  the  parts  of  crag  or  wood,  which  ought  to  com- 
bine with  it,  become  subservient  to  it,  and  lost  in  its  general 
effect ;  that  is,  ordinarily,  in  a  general  effect  of  ugliness.  This 
should  never  be  the  case  :  however  intrinsically  beautiful  the 
edifice  may  be,  it  should  assist,  but  not  supersede  ;  join,  but 
not  eclipse  ;  appear,  but  not  intrude.  The  general  rule  by 
which  we  are  to  determine  the  size  is,  to  select  the  largest 
mass  which  will  not  overwhelm  any  object  of  fine  form,  with- 
in two  hundred  yards  of  it ;  and,  if  it  does  not  do  this,  we 
may  be  quite  sure  it  is  not  too  large  for  the  distant  features  : 

"  I  should  think,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  could  climb  it  in  two  steps  ;  but  I 
am  too  well  used  to  hills  to  be  taken  in  that  way  ;  it  is  at  least  40  ft.'' 
The  real  height  was  470  ft.  This  deception  is  attributable  to  several 
causes  (independently  of  the  clearness  of  the  medium  through  which 
the  object  is  seen),  which  it  would  be  out  of  place  to  discuss  here,  but 
the  chief  of  which  is  the  natural  tendency  of  the  feelings  always  to 
believe  objects  subtending  the  same  angle  to  be  of  the  same  height.  We 
say  the  feelings,  not  the  eye  ;  for  the  practised  eye  never  betrays  its 
possessor,  though  the  due  and  corresponding  mental  impression  is  not 
received. 


144  THE  POETRY   OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

for  it  is  one  of  Nature's  most  beautiful  adaptations,  that 
she  is  never  out  of  proportion  with  herself  ;  that  is,  the 
minor  details  of  scenery  of  the  first  class  bear  exactly  the 
proportion  to  the  same  species  of  detail  in  scenery  of  the  sec- 
ond class,  that  the  large  features  of  the  first  bear  to  the  large 
features  of  the  second.  Every  mineralogist  knows  that  the 
quartz  of  the  St.  Gothard  is  as  much  larger  in  its  crystal  than 
the  quartz  of  Snowdon,  as  the  peak  of  the  one  mountain  over- 
tops the  peak  of  the  other ;  and  that  the  crystals  of  the  Andes 
are  larger  than  either.*  Every  artist  knows  that  the  boulders 
of  an  Alpine  foreground,  and  the  leaps  of  an  Alpine  stream, 
are  as  much  larger  than  the  boulders,  and  as  much  bolder 
than  the  leaps,  of  a  Cumberland  foreground  and  torrent,  as 
the  Jungfrau  is  higher  than  Skiddaw.  Therefore,  if  we  take 
care  of  the  near  effect  in  any  country,  we  need  never  be  afraid 
of  the  distant.  For  these  reasons,  the  cottage  villa,  rather 
than  the  mansion,  is  to  be  preferred  among  our  hills :  it  has 
been  preferred  in  many  instances,  and  in  too  many,  with  an 
unfortunate  result ;  for  the  cottage  villa  is  precisely  that  which 
affords  the  greatest  scope  for  practical  absurdity.  Symmetry, 
proportion,  and  some  degree  of  simplicity  are  usually  kept  in 
view  in  the  large  building  ;  but,  in  the  smaller,  the  architect 
considers  himself  licensed  to  try  all  sorts  of  experiments,  and 
jumbles  together  pieces  of  imitation,  taken  at  random  from 
his  note-book,  as  carelessly  as  a  bad  chemist  mixing  elements, 
from  which  he  may  by  accident  obtain  something  new,  though 
the  chances  are  ten  to  one  that  he  obtains  something  useless. 
The  chemist,  however,  is  more  innocent  than  the  architect ; 
for  the  one  throws  his  trash  out  of  the  window  if  the  com- 
pound fail ;  while  the  other  always  thinks  his  conceit  too  good 
to  be  lost.  The  great  one  cause  of  all  the  errors  in  this 
branch  of  architecture  is,  the  principle  of  imitation,  at  once 
the  most  baneful  and  the  most  unintellectual,  yet  perhaps  the 

*  This  is  rather  a  bold  assertion  ;  and  we  should  be  sorry  to  maintain 
the  fact  as  universal  ;  but  the  crystals  of  almost  all  the  rarer  minerals 
are  larger  in  the  larger  mountain  ;  and  that  altogether  independently  of 
the  period  of  elevation,  which,  in  the  case  of  Mont  Blanc,  is  later  tha» 
that  of  our  own  Mendips. 


THE   VILLA.  145 

most  natural,  that  the  human  mind  can  encourage  or  act  upon.* 
Let  it  once  be  thoroughly  rooted  out,  and  the  cottage  villa 
will  become  a  beautiful  and  interesting  element  of  our  land- 
scape. 

So  much  for  size.  The  question  of  position  need  not  de- 
tain us  long,  as  the  principles  advanced  at  page  66,  are  true 

*  In  p.  116,  we  noticed  the  kind  of  error  most  common  in  amateur 
designs,  and  we  traced  that  error  to  its  great  first  cause,  the  assumption 
of  the  humour,  instead  of  the  true  character,  for  a  guide  ;  but  we  did 
not  sufficiently  specify  the  mode  in  which  that  first  cause  operated,  by 
prompting  to  imitation.  By  imitation,  we  do  not  mean  accurate  copy, 
ing,  neither  do  we  mean  working  under  the  influence  of  the  feelings  by 
which  we  may  suppose  the  originators  of  a  given  model  to  have  been 
actuated  ;  but  we  mean  the  intermediate  step  of  endeavouring  to  com- 
bine old  materials  in  a  novel  manner.  True  copying  may  be  disdained 
by  architects,  but  it  should  not  be  disdained  by  nations ;  for,  when  the 
feelings  of  the  time  in  which  certain  styles  had  their  origin  have  passed 
away,  any  examples  of  the  same  style  will  invariably  be  failures,  unless 
they  be  copies.  It  is  utter  absurdity  to  talk  of  building  Greek  edifices 
now  ;  no  man  ever  will,  or  ever  can,  who  does  not  believe  in  the  Greek 
mythology  ;  and,  precisely  by  so  much  as  he  diverges  from  the  techni- 
cality of  strict  copyism,  he  will  err.  But  we  ought  to  have  pieces  of 
Greek  architecture,  as  we  have  reprints  of  the  most  valuable  records, 
and  it  is  better  to  build  a  new  Parthenon  than  to  set  up  the  old  one. 
Let  the  dust  and  the  desolation  of  the  Acropolis  be  undisturbed  for 
ever  ;  let  them  be  left  to  be  the  school  of  our  moral  feelings,  not  of  our 
mechanical  perceptions  :  the  line  and  rule  of  the  prying  carpenter 
should  not  come  into  the  quiet  and  holy  places  of  the  earth.  Else- 
where, we  may  build  marble  models  for  the  education  of  the  national 
mind  and  eye  ;  but  it  is  useless  to  think  of  adopting  the  architecture  of 
the  Greek  to  the  purposes  of  the  Frank :  it  never  has  been  done,  and 
never  will  be.  We  delight,  indeed,  in  observing  the  rise  of  such  a  build- 
ing as  La  Madeleine  :  beautiful,  because  accurately  copied ;  useful,  as 
teaching  the  eye  of  every  passer-by.  But  we  must  not  think  of  its  pur- 
pose :  it  is  wholly  unadapted  for  Christian  worship  ;  and,  were  it  as  bad 
Greek  as  our  National  Gallery,  it  would  be  equally  unfit.  The  mistake 
of  our  architects  in  general  is,  that  they  fancy  they  are  speaking  good 
English  by  speaking  bad  Greek.  We  wish,  therefore,  that  copying  were 
more  in  vogue  than  it  is.  But  imitation,  the  endeavour  to  be  Gothic,  or 
Tyrolese,  or  Venetian,  without  the  slightest  grain  of  Gothic  or  Venetian 
feeling  ;  the  futile  effort  to  splash  a  building  into  age,  or  daub  it  into 
dignity,  to  zigzag  it  into  sanctity,  or  slit  it  into  ferocity,  when  its  shell 
is  neither  ancient  nor  dignified,  and  its  spirit  neither  priestly  nor  baro- 


146  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

generally,  with  one  exception.  Beautiful  and  calm  the  situa- 
tion must  always  be,  but,  in  England,  not  conspicuous.  In 
Italy,  the  dwelling  of  the  descendants  of  those  whose  former 
life  has  bestowed  on  every  scene  the  greater  part  of  the  maj- 
esty which  it  possesses,  ought  to  have  a  dignity  inherent  in 
it,  which  would  be  shamed  by  shrinking  back  from  the  sight 
of  men,  and  majesty  enough  to  prevent  such  non-retirement 
from  becoming  intrusive  ;  but  the  spirit  of  the  English  land- 
scape is  simple,  and  pastoral  and  mild,  devoid,  also,  of  high 
associations  (for,  in  the  Highlands  and  Wales,  almost  every 
spot  which  has  the  pride  of  memory  is  unfit  for  villa  resi- 
dence) ;  and,  therefore,  all  conspicuous  appearance  of  its 
more  wealthy  inhabitants  becomes  ostentation,  not  dignity  ; 
impudence,  not  condescension.  Their  dwellings  ought  to  be 
just  evident,  and  no  more,  as  forming  part  of  the  gentle 
animation,  and  present  prosperity,  which  is  the  beauty  of 
cultivated  ground.  And  this  partial  concealment  may  be 
effected  without  any  sacrifice  of  the  prospect  which  the  pro- 

nial ;  this  is  tlie  degrading  vice  of  the  age  ;  fostered,  as  if  man's  reason 
were  but  a  step  between  the  brains  of  a  kitten  and  a  monkey,  in  the 
mixed  love  of  despicable  excitement  and  miserable  mimicry.  If  the 
English  have  no  imagination,  they  should  not  scorn  to  be  commonplace  ; 
or,  rather,  they  should  remember  that  poverty  cannot  be  disguised  by 
beggarly  borrowing,  though  it  may  be  ennobled  by  calm  independence. 
Our  national  architecture  never  will  improve  until  our  population  are 
generally  convinced  that  in  this  art,  as  in  all  others,  they  cannot  seem 
what  they  cannot  be.  The  scarlet  coat  or  the  turned-down  collar, 
which  the  obsequious  portrait-painter  puts  on  the  shoulders  and  off  the 
necks  of  his  savage  or  insane  customers,  never  can  make  the  'prentice  look 
military,  or  the  idiot  poetical ;  and  the  architectural  appurtenances  of 
Norman  embrasure  or  Veronaic  balcony  must  be  equally  ineffective, 
until  they  can  turn  shopkeepers  into  barons,  and  schoolgirls  into  Juliets. 
Let  the  national  mind  be  elevated  in  its  character,  and  it  will  naturally 
become  pure  in  its  conceptions ;  let  it  be  simple  in  its  desires,  and  it 
will  be  beautiful  in  its  ideas  ;  let  it  be  modest  in  feeling,  and  it  will  not 
be  insolent  in  stone.  For  architect  and  for  employer,  there  can  be  but 
one  rule ;  to  be  natural  in  all  that  they  do,  and  to  look  for  the  beauty 
of  the  material  creation  as  they  would  for  that  of  the  human  form,  not 
in  the  chanceful  and  changing  disposition  of  artificial  decoration,  but  in 
the  manifestation  of  the  pure  and  animating  spirit  which  keeps  it  fron? 
tlie  coldness  of  the  grave. 


THE  VILLA.  147 

prietor  will  insist  upon  commanding  from  his  windows, 
and  with  great  accession  to  his  permanent  enjoyment.  For, 
first,  the  only  prospect  which  is  really  desirable  or  de- 
lightful, is  that  from  the  window  of  the  breakfast-room. 
This  is  rather  a  bold  position,  but  it  will  appear  evident 
on  a  little  consideration.  It  is  pleasant  enough  to  have  a 
pretty  little  bit  visible  from  the  bed-rooms  ;  but,  after  all,  it 
only  makes  gentlemen  cut  themselves  in  shaving,  and  ladies 
never  think  of  anything  beneath  the  sun  when  they  are  dress- 
ing. Then,  in  the  dining-room  windows  are  absolutely  use- 
less, because  dinner  is  always  uncomfortable  by  daylight,  and 
the  weight  of  furniture  effect  which  adapts  the  room  for  the 
gastronomic  rites,  renders  it  detestable  as  a  sitting-room.  In 
the  library,  people  should  have  something  else  to  do,  than 
looking  out  of  the  windows  ;  in  the  drawing-room,  the  un- 
comfortable stillness  of  the  quarter  of  an  hour  before  dinner 
may,  indeed,  be  alleviated  by  having  something  to  converse 
about  at  the  windows  :  but  it  is  very  shameful  to  spoil  a  pros- 
pect of  any  kind,  by  looking  at  it  when  we  are  not  ourselves 
in  a  state  of  corporal  comfort  and  mental  good  humour,  which 
nobody  can  be  after  the  labour  of  the  day,  and  before  he  has 
been  fed.  But  the  breakfast-room,  where  we  meet  the  first 
light  of  the  dewy  day,  the  first  breath  of  the  morning  air,  the 
first  glance  of  gentle  eyes  ;  to  which  we  descend  in  the  very 
spring  and  elasticity  of  mental  renovation  and  bodily  energy, 
in  the  gathering  up  of  our  spirit  for  the  new  day,  in  the  flush 
of  our  awakening  from  the  darkness  and  the  mystery  of  faint 
and  inactive  dreaming,  in  the  resurrection  from  our  daily 
grave,  in  the  first  tremulous  sensation  of  the  beauty  of  our 
being,  in  the  most  glorious  perception  of  the  lightning  of  our 
life  ;  there,  indeed,  our  expatiation  of  spirit,  when  it  meets 
the  pulse  of  outward  sound  and  joy,  the  voice  of  bird  and 
breeze  and  billow,  does  demand  some  power  of  liberty,  some 
space  for  its  going  forth  into  the  morning,  some  freedom  of 
intercourse  with  the  lovely  and  limitless  energy  of  creature 
and  creation.  The  breakfast-room  must  have  a  prospect,  and 
an  extensive  one ;  the  hot  roll  and  hyson  are  indiscussable, 
except  under  such  sweet  circumstances.  But  he  must  be  au 


148      THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

awkward  architect,  who  cannot  afford  an  opening  to  one  win- 
dow without  throwing  the  whole  mass  of  the  building  open  to 
public  view  ;  particularly  as,  in  the  second  place,  the  essence 
of  a  good  window  view,  is  the  breaking  out  of  the  distant 
features  in  little  well-composed  morceaux,  not  the  general 
glare  of  a  mass  of  one  tone.  Have  we  a  line  of  lake  ?  the  sil- 
ver water  must  glance  out  here  and  there  among  the  trunks 
of  near  trees,  just  enough  to  show  where  it  flows  ;  then  break 
into  an  open  swell  of  water,  just  where  it  is  widest,  or 
where  the  shore  is  prettiest.  Have  we  mountains?  their 
peaks  must  appear  over  foliage,  or  through  it,  the  highest  and 
boldest  catching  the  eye  conspicuously,  yet  not  seen  from 
base  to  summit,  as  if  we  wanted  to  measure  them.  Such  a 
prospect  as  this  is  always  compatible  with  as  much  conceal- 
ment as  we  choose.  In  all  these  pieces  of  management,  the 
architect's  chief  enemy  is  the  vanity  of  his  employer,  who  will 
always  want  to  see  more  than  he  ought  to  see,  and  than  he 
will  have  pleasure  in  seeing,  without  reflecting  how  the  spec- 
tators pay  for  his  peeping. 

So  much,  then,  for  position.  We  have  now  only  to  settle 
the  questions  of  form  and  colour,  and  we  shall  then  have 
closed  the  most  tiresome  investigation,  which  we  shall  be 
called  upon  to  enter  into  ;  inasmuch  as  the  principles  which 
we  may  arrive  at  in  considering  the  architecture  of  defence, 
though  we  hope  they  may  be  useful  in  the  abstract,  will  de- 
mand no  application  to  native  landscape,  in  which,  happily, 
no  defence  is  now  required  ;  and  those  relating  to  sacred  edi- 
fices will,  we  also  hope,  be  susceptible  of  more  interest  than 
can  possibly  be  excited  by  the  most  degraded  branch  of  the 
whole  art  of  architecture,  one  hardly  worthy  of  being  included 
under  the  name  ;  that,  namely,  with  which  we  have  lately 
been  occupied,  whose  ostensible  object  is  the  mere  provision 
of  shelter  and  comfort  for  the  despicable  shell  within  whose 
darkness  and  corruption  that  purity  of  perception  to  which 
all  high  art  is  addressed  is,  during  its  immaturity,  confined. 

There  are  two  modes  in  which  any  mental  or  material  effect 
may  be  increased  ;  by  contrast,  or  by  assimilation.  Suppos- 
ing that  we  have  a  certain  number  of  features,  or  existences, 


THE   VILLA. 


140 


under  a  given  influence  ;  then,  t>y  subjecting  another  feature 
to  the  same  influence,  we  increase  the  universality,  and  there- 
fore the  effect,  of  that  influence  ;  but,  by  introducing  another 
feature,  not  under  the  same  influence,  we  render  the  subjec- 
tion of  the  other  features  more  palpable,  and  therefore  moro 
effective.  For  example,  let  the  influence  be  one  of  shade 
(Fig.  41),  to  which  a  certain  number  of  objects  are  subjected 
in  a  and  b.  To  a  we  add  another  feat- 
ure, subjected  to  the  same  influence, 
and  we  increase  the  general  impres- 
sion of  shade  ;  to  &  we  add  the  same 
feature,  not  subjected  to  this  in- 
fluence, and  we  have  deepened  the 
effect  of  shade.  Now,  the  principles 
by  which  we  are  to  be  guided  in  the 
selection  of  one  or  other  of  these 
means  are  of  great  importance,  and 
must  be  developed  before  we  can  con- 
clude the  investigation  of  villa  archi- 
tecture. The  impression  produced 
by  a  given  effect  or  influence  depends 
upon  its  degree  and  its  duration. 
Degree  always  means  the  proportionate  energy  exerted.  Du- 
ration is  either  into  time,  or  into  space,  or  into  both.  The 
duration  of  colour  is  in  space  alone,  forming  what  is  com- 
monly called  extent.  The  duration  of  sound  is  in  space  and 
time ;  the  space  being  in  the  size  of  the  waves  of  air,  which 
give  depth  to  the  tone.  The  duration  of  mental  emotion  is 
in  time  alone.  Now,  in  all  influences,  as  is  the  degree,  so  is 
the  impression  :  as  is  the  duration,  so  is  the  effect  of  the  im- 
pression ;  that  is,  its  permanent  operation  upon  the  feelings, 
or  the  violence  with  which  it  takes  possession  of  our  own 
faculties  and  senses,  as  opposed  to  the  abstract  impression  of 
its  existence  without  such  operation  on  our  own  essence. 
For  example,  the  natural  tendency  of  darkness  or  shade  is, 
to  induce  fear  or  melancholy.  Now,  as  the  degree  of  the 
shade,  so  is  the  abstract  impression  of  the  existence  of  shade  ; 
but,  as  the  duration  of  shade,  so  is  the  fear  of  melancholy 


Fig.  41. 


150  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

exoited  by  it.  Consequently,  when  we  wish  to  increase  the 
abstract  impression  of  the  power  of  any  influence  over  objects 
with  which  we  have  no  connexion,  we  must  increase  degree  ; 
but,  when  we  wish  the  impression  to  produce  a  permanent 
effect  upon  ourselves,  we  must  increase  duration.  Now,  de- 
gree is  always  increased  by  contrast,  and  duration  by  assimi- 
lation. A  few  instances  of  this  will  be  sufficient.  Blue  is 
calledja  cold  colour,  because  it  induces  a  feeling  of  coolness 
to'the  eye,  and  is  much  used  by  nature  in  her  cold  effects. 
Supposing  that  we  have  painted  a  storm  scene,  in  desolate 
country,  with  a  single  miserable  cottage  somewhere  in  front ; 
that  we  have  made  the  atmosphere  and  the  distance  cold  and 
blue,  and  wish  to  heighten  the  comfortless  impression.  There 
is  an  old  rag  hanging  out  of  the  window :  shall  it  be  red  or 
blue  ?  If  it  be  red,  the  piece  of  warm  colour  will  contrast 
strongly  with  the  atmosphere ;  will  render  its  blueness  and 
chilliness  immensely  more  apparent ;  will  increase  the  degree 
of  both,  and,  therefore,  the  abstract  impression  of  the  exist- 
ence of  cold.  But,  if  it  be  blue,  it  will  bring  the  iciness  of 
the  distance  up  into  the  foreground  ;  wiU  fill  the  whole  visi- 
ble space  with  comfortless  cold  ;  will  take  away  every  relief 
from  the  desolation ;  will  increase  the  duration  of  the  in- 
fluence, and,  consequently,  will  extend  its  operation  into  the 
mind  and  feelings  of  the  spectator,  who  will  shiver  as  he  looks. 
Now,  if  we  are  painting  a  picture,  we  shall  not  hesitate  a  mo- 
ment :  in  goes  the  red  ;  for  the  artist,  while  he  wishes  to  ren- 
der the  actual  impression  of  the  presence  of  cold  in  the  land- 
scape as  strong  as  possible,  does  not  wish  that  chilliness  to 
pass  over  into,  or  affect,  the  spectator,  but  endeavours  to 
make  the  combination  of  colour  as  delightful  to  his  eye  and 
feelings  as  possible.*  But,  if  we  are  painting  a  scene  for  the- 
atrical representation,  where  deception  is  aimed  at,  we  shall 
be  as  decided  in  our  proceeding  on  the  opposite  principle  : 
in  goes  the  blue ;  for  we  wish  the  idea  of  cold  to  pass  over 
into  the  spectator,  and  make  him  so  uncomfortable  as  to  per- 
mit his  fancy  to  place  him  distinctly  in  the  place  we  desire, 

*  This  difference  of  principle  is  one  leading  distinction  between  the 
artist,  properly  so  called,  and  the  scene,  diorama,  or  panorama  painter, 


THE   VILLA.  151 

in  the  actual  scene.  Again,  Shakspeare  has  been  blamed  by 
some  few  critical  asses  for  the  raillery  of  Mercutio,  and  the 
humour  of  the  nurse,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  for  the  fool  in 
Lear ;  for  the  porter  in  Macbeth ;  the  grave-diggers  in  Ham- 
let, &c.  ;  because,  it  is  said,  these  bits  interrupt  the  tragic 
feeling.  No  such  thing  ;  they  enhance  it  to  an  incalculable 
extent ;  they  deepen  its  degree,  though  they  diminish  its  du- 
ration. And  what  is  the  result  ?  that  the  impression  of  the 
agony  of  the  individuals  brought  before  us  is  far  stronger 
than  it  could  otherwise  have  been,  and  our  sympathies  are 
more  forcibly  awakened  ;  while,  had  the  contrast  been  want- 
ing, the  impression  of  pain  would  have  come  over  into  our- 
selves ;  our  selfish  feeling,  instead  of  our  sympathy,  would 
have  been  awakened ;  the  conception  of  the  grief  of  others 
diminished ;  and  the  tragedy  would  have  made  us  very  un- 
comfortable, but  never  have  melted  us  to  tears,  or  excited  us 
to  indignation.  When  he,  whose  merry  and  satirical  laugh 
rung  in  our  ears  the  moment  before,  faints  before  us,  with 
"  A  plague  o'  both  your  houses,  they  have  made  worms'  meat 
of  me,"  the  acuteness  of  our  feeling  is  excessive :  but,  had  we 
not  heard  the  laugh  before,  there  would  have  been  a  dull 
weight  of  melancholy  impression,  which  would  have  been 
painful,  not  affecting.  Hence,  we  see  the  grand  importance 
of  the  choice  of  our  means  of  enhancing  effect ;  and  we  derive 
the  simple  rule  for  that  choice  ;  namely,  that,  when  we  wish 
to  increase  abstract  impression,  or  to  call  upon  the  sympathy 
of  the  spectator,  we  are  to  use  contrast ;  but,  when  we  wish 
to  extend  the  operation  of  the  impression,  or  to  awaken  the 
selfish  feelings,  we  are  to  use  assimilation. 

This  rule,  however,  becomes  complicated  where  the  feature 
of  contrast  is  not  altogether  passive  ;  that  is,  where  we  wish 
to  give  a  conception  of  any  qualities  inherent  in  that  feature, 
as  well  as  in  what  it  relieves ;  and,  besides,  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  know  whether  it  will  be  best  to  increase  the  abstract 
idea,  or  its  operation.  In  most  cases,  energy,  the  degree  of 
influence,  is  beauty  ;  and,  in  many,  the  duration  of  influence 
is  monotony.  In  others,  duration  is  sublimity,  and  energy 
painful :  in  a  few,  energy  and  duration  are  attainable  and  de« 


152  THE  POETRY  OP  ARCHITECTURE. 

lightful  together.  It  is  impossible  to  give  rules  for  judgment 
in  every  case  ;  but  the  following  points  must  always  be  ob- 
served : — 1.  "When  we  use  contrast,  it  must  be  natural,  and 
likely  to  occur.  Thus,  the  contrast  in  tragedy  is  the  natural 
consequence  of  the  character  of  human  existence  :  it  is  what 
we  see  and  feel  every  day  of  our  lives.  "When  a  contrast  is 
unnatural,  it  destroys  the  effect  it  should  enhance.  Canning 
called  on  a  French  refugee  in  1794.  The  conversation  natu- 
rally turned  on  the  execution  of  the  queen,  then  a  recent 
event.  Overcome  by  his  feelings,  the  Parisian  threw  himself 
upon  the  ground,  exclaiming,  in  an  agony  of  tears,  "La  bonne 
reine !  la  pauvre  reine !  "  Presently  he  sprang  up,  exclaim- 
ing, "  Cependant,  Monsieur,  il  faut  vous  faire  voir  mon  petit 
chien  danser."  This  contrast,  though  natural  in  a  Parisian, 
was  unnatural  in  the  nature  of  things,  and  therefore  inju- 
rious. 

2dly.  When  the  general  influence,  instead  of  being  exter- 
nal, is  an  attribute  or  energy  of  the  thing  itself,  so  as  to  be- 
stow on  it  a  permanent  character,  the  contrast  which  is  ob- 
tained by  the  absence  of  that  character  is  injurious  and 
becomes  what  is  called  an  interruption  of  the  unity.  Thus, 
the  raw  and  colourless  tone  of  the  Swiss  cottage,  noticed  at 
page  29,  is  an  injurious  contrast  to  the  richness  of  the  land- 
scape, which  is  an  inherent  and  necessary  energy  in  surround- 
ing objects.  So,  the  character  of  Italian  landscape  is  curvi- 
linear ;  therefore,  the  outline  of  the  buildings  entering  into 
its  composition  must  be  arranged  on  curvilinear  principles,  aa 
investigated  at  page  97. 

3dly.  But,  if  the  pervading  character  can  be  obtained  in 
the  single  object  by  different  means,  the  contrast  will  be  de- 
lightfuL  Thus,  the  elevation  of  character  which  the  hill  dis- 
tricts of  Italy  possess  by  the  magnificence  of  their  forms,  is 
transmitted  to  the  villa  by  its  dignity  of  detail,  and  simplicity 
of  outline  ;  and  the  rectangular  interruption  to  the  curve  of 
picturesque  blue  country,  partaking  of  the  nature  of  that 
which  it  interrupts,  is  a  contrast  giving  relief  and  interest, 
while  any  Elizabethan  acute  angles,  on  the  contrary,  would 
have  beec  a  contrast  obtained  by  the  absence  of  the  pervad/ 


THE   VILLA. 


153 


ing  energy  of  the  universal  curvilinear  character,  and  there- 
fore improper. 

4thly.  When  the  general  energy,  instead  of  pervading  sim- 
ultaneously the  multitude  of  objects,  as  with  one  spirit,  is 
independently  possessed  and  manifested  by  every  individual 
object,  the  result  is  repetition,  not  unity :  and  contrast  is  not 
merely  agreeable,  but  necessary.  Thus,  in  Fig.  42,  the  num- 
ber of  objects,  forming  the  line  of  beauty,  is  pervaded  by  one 


FIG.  42. 


FIG.  43. 


simple  energy  ;  but  in  Fig.  43  that  energy  is  separately  mani- 
fested in  each,  and  the  result  is  painful  monotony.  Parallel 
right  lines,  without  grouping,  are  always  liable  to  this  objec- 
tion ;  and,  therefore,  a  distant  view  of  a  flat  country  is  never 
beautiful,  unless  its  horizontals  are  lost  in  richness  of  vegeta- 
tion, as  in  Lombardy  ;  or  broken  with  masses  of  forest,  or 
with  distant  hills.  If  none  of  these  interruptions  take  place, 
there  is  immediate  monotony,  and  no  introduction  can  be 
more  delightful  than  such  a  tower  in  the  distance  as  Stras- 
burg,  or,  indeed,  than  any  architectural  combination  of  verti- 
cals. Peterborough  is  a  beautiful  instance  of  such  an  adap- 
tation. It  is  always,  then,  to  be  remembered  that  repetition 
is  not  assimilation. 

5thly.  When  any  attribute  is  necessarily  beautiful,  that  is, 
beautiful  in  every  place  and  circumstance,  we  need  hardly 


154  TEE  POETRY  Off  ARCHITECTURE. 

say  that  the  contrast  consisting  in  its  absence  is  painful.  It 
is  only  when  beauty  is  local  or  accidental  that  opposition 
may  be  employed. 

6thly.  The  edge  of  all  contrasts,  so  to  speak,  should  be  as 
soft  as  is  consistent  with  decisive  effect.  We  mean,  that  a 
gradual  change  is  better  than  instantaneous  transfiguration  ; 
for,  though  always  less  effective,  it  is  more  agreeable.  But 
this  must  be  left  very  much  to  the  judgment. 

Tthly.  We  must  be  very  careful  in  ascertaining  whether  any 
given  contrast  is  obtained  by  freedom  from  external,  or  absence 
of  internal,  energy,  for  it  is  often  a  difficult  point  to  decide. 
Thus,  the  peace  of  the  Alpine  valley  might,  at  first,  seem  to  be 
a  contrast  caused  by  the  want  of  the  character  of  strength  and 
sublimity  manifested  in  the  hills ;  but  it  is  really  caused  by 
the  freedom  from  the  general  and  external  influence  of  violence 
and  desolation. 

These,  then,  are  principles  applicable  to  all  arts,  without  a 
single  exception,  and  of  particular  importance  in  painting  and 
architecture.  It  will  sometimes  be  found  that  one  rule  comes 
in  the  way  of  another  ;  in  which  case,  the  most  important  is,  of 
course,  to  be  obeyed  ;  but,  in  general,  they  will  afford  us  an 
easy  means  of  arriving  at  certain  results,  when,  before,  our  con- 
jectures must  have  been  vague  and  unsatisfactory.  We  may 
now  proceed  to  determine  the  most  proper  form  for  the 
mountain  villa  of  England. 

We  must  first  observe  the  prevailing  lines  of  the  near  hills : 
if  they  are  vertical,  there  will  most  assuredly  be  monotony, 
for  the  vertical  lines  of  crag  are  never  grouped,  and  accord- 
ingly, by  our  fourth  rule,  the  prevailing  lines  of  our  edifice 
must  be  horizontal.  In  Fig.  44,  which  is  a  village  half-way 
up  the  Lake  of  Thun,  the  tendency  of  the  hills  is  vertical ; 
this  tendency  is  repeated  by  the  buildings,  and  the  composi- 
tion becomes  thoroughly  bad  :  but,  at  p.  69,  Fig.  27,  we  have 
the  same  vertical  tendency  in  the  hills,  while  the  grand  lines 
of  the  buildings  are  horizontal,  and  the  composition  is  good. 
But,  if  the  prevailing  lines  of  the  near  hills  be  curved  (and 
they  will  be  either  curved  or  vertical),  we  must  not  interrupt 
their  character,  for  the  energy  is  then  pervading,  not  individ- 


THE   VILLA. 


155 


ual ;  and,  therefore,  our  edifice  must  be  rectangular.  In  both 
cases,  therefore,  the  grand  outline  of  the  villa  is  the  same ; 
but  in  the  one  we  have  it  set  off  by  contrast,  in  the  other  by 
assimilation ;  and  we  must  work  out  in  the  architecture  of 
each  edifice  the  principle  on  which  we  have  begun.  Com- 
mencing with  that  in  which  we  are  to  work  by  contrast :  the 
vertical  crags  must  be  the  result  of  violence,  and  the  influ- 


FIG.  44. 

ence  of  destruction,  of  distortion,  of  torture,  to  speak  strong- 
ly, must  be  evident  in  their  every  line.  We  free  the  build- 
ing from  this  influence,  and  give  it  repose,  gracefulness,  and 
ease  ;  and  we  have  a  contrast  of  feeling  as  well  as  of  line,  by 
which  the  desirable  attributes  are  rendered  evident  in  both 
objects,  while  the  duration  of  neither  energy  being  allowed, 
there  can  be  no  disagreeable  effect  upon  the  spectator,  who 
will  not  shrink  from  the  terror  of  the  crags,  nor  feel  a  want  of 
excitement  in  the  gentleness  of  the  building. 

2dly.  Solitude  is  powerful  and  evident  in  its  effect  on  the 


156  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

distant  hills,  therefore,  the  effect  of  the  villa  should  be  joyous 
and  life-like  (not  flippant,  however,  but  serene) ;  and,  by 
rendering  it  so,  we  shall  enhance  the  sublimity  of  the  distance, 
as  we  showed  in  speaking  of  the  Westmoreland  cottage  ;  and, 
therefore,  we  may  introduce  a  number  of  windows  with  good 
effect,  provided  that  they  are  kept  in  horizontal  lines,  and  do 
not  disturb  the  repose  which  we  have  shown  to  bo  necessary. 
These  three  points  of  contrast  will  be  quite  enough  :  there 
is  no  other  external  influence  from  which  we  can  free  the 
building,  and  the  pervading  energy  must  be  communicated  to 
it,  or  it  will  not  harmonise  with  our  feelings ;  therefore,  be- 
fore proceeding,  we  had  better  determine  how  this  contrast  is 
to  be  carried  out  in  detail.  Our  lines  are  to  be  horizontal ; 
then  the  roof  must  be  as  flat  as  possible.  We  need  not  think 


FIG.  45. 

of  snow,  because,  however  much  we  may  slope  the  roof,  it  will 
not  slip  off  from  the  material  which,  here,  is  the  only  proper 
one  ;  and  the  roof  of  the  cottage  is  always  very  flat,  which  it 
would  not  be  if  there  were  any  inconvenience  attending  such 
a  form.  But,  for  the  sake  of  the  second  contrast,  we  are  to 
have  gracefulness  and  ease,  as  weU  as  horizontality.  Then  we 
must  break  the  line  of  the  roof  into  different  elevations,  yet 
not  making  the  difference  great,  or  we  shall  have  visible  verti- 
cals. And  this  must  not  be  done  at  random.  Take  a  flat 
line  of  beauty,  a  d,  Fig.  45,  for  the  length  of  the  edifice. 
Strike  a  b  horizontally  from  a,  c  d  from  d ;  let  fall  the  verti- 
cals ;  make  cf  equal  m  n,  the  maximum  ;  and  draw  hf.  The 
curve  should  be  so  far  continued  as  that  h  f  shall  be  to  c  d  as 
cdtoab.  Then  we  are  sure  of  a  beautifully  proportioned  f crm. 
Much  variety  may  be  introduced  by  using  different  curves ; 
joining  paraboles  with  cycloids,  &c.  ;  but  the  use  of  curves  is 


THE   VILLA.  157 

always  the  best  mode  of  obtaining  good  forms.  Further  ease 
may  be  obtained  by  added  combinations.  For  instance,  strike 
another  curve  (a  q  6)  through  the  flat  line  a  6  ;  bisect  the 
maximum  v  p,  draw  the  horizontal  r  s,  (observing  to  make  the 
largest  maximum  of  this  curve  towards  the  smallest  maximum 
of  the  great  curve,  to  restore  the  balance),  join  r  q,  s  b,  and 
we  have  another  modification  of  the  same  beautiful  form. 
This  may  be  done  in  either  side  of  the  building,  but  not  in 
both.  Then,  if  the  flat  roof  be  still  found  monotonous,  it  may 
be  interrupted  by  garret  windows,  which  must  not  be  gabled, 
but  turned  with  the  curve  a  b,  whatever  that  may  be.  This 
will  give  instant  humility  to  the  building,  and  take  away  any 
vestiges  of  Italian  character  which  might  hang  about  it,  and 
which  would  be  wholly  out  of  place.  The  windows  may  have 
tolerably  broad  architraves,  but  no  cornices  ;  an  ornamented 
both  haughty  and  classical  in  its  effect,  and,  on  both  accounts, 
improper  here.  They  should  be  in  level  lines,  but  grouped  at 
unequal  distances,  or  they  will  have  a  formal  and  artificial  air, 
unsuited  to  the  irregularity  and  freedom  around  them.  Some 
few  of  them  may  be  arched,  however,  with  the  curve  a  b,  the  min- 
gling of  the  curve  and  the  square  being  very  graceful.  There 
should  not  be  more  than  two  tiers  and  the  garrets,  or  the 
building  will  be  too  high. 

So  much  for  the  general  outline  of  the  villa,  in  which  we 
are  to  work  by  contrast.  Let  us  pass  over  to  that  in  which 
we  are  to  work  by  assimilation,  before  speaking  of  the  mate- 
rial and  colour  which  should  be  common  to  both. 

The  grand  outline  must  be  designed  on  exactly  the  same 
principles  ;  for  the  curvilinear  proportions,  which  were  oppo- 
sition before,  will  now  be  assimilation.  Of  course,  we  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  every  villa  in  a  hill  country  should  have  the 
form  abed;  we  should  be  tired  to  death  if  they  had  :  but 
we  bring  forward  that  form,  as  an  example  of  the  agreeable 
result  of  the  principles  on  which  we  should  always  work,  but 
whose  result  should  be  the  same  in  no  two  cases.  A  modifi- 
cation of  that  form,  however,  will  frequently  be  found  useful ; 
for,  under  the  depression  h  f,  we  may  have  a  hall  of  entrance 
and  of  exercise,  which  is  a  requisite  of  extreme  importance 


158  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

in  bill  districts,  where  it  rains  three  hours  out  of  four  all  the 
year  round  ;  and  under  c  d  we  may  have  the  kitchen,  servants' 
rooms,  and  coach-house,  leaving  the  large  division  quiet  and 
comfortable. 

Then,  as  in  the  curved  country  there  is  no  such  distortion 
as  that  before  noticed,  no  such  evidence  of  violent  agency,  we 
need  not  be  so  careful  about  the  appearance  of  perfect  peace, 
we  may  be  a  little  more  dignified  and  a  little  more  classical. 
The  windows  may  be  symmetrically  arranged  ;  and,  if  there 
be  a  blue  and  undulating  distance,  the  upper  tier  may  even 
have  cornices  ;  narrower  architraves  are  to  be  used  ;  the  gar- 
rets may  be  taken  from  the  roof,  and  their  inmates  may  be 
accommodated  in  the  other  side  of  the  house  ;  but  we  must 
take  care,  in  doing  this,  not  to  become  Greek.  The  material, 
as  we  shall  see  presently,  will  assist  us  in  keeping  unclassical ; 
and  not  a  vestige  of  column  or  capital  must  appear  in  any 
part  of  the  edifice.  All  should  be  pure,  but  all  should  be 
English  ;  and  there  should  be  here,  as  elsewhere,  much  of  the 
utilitarian  about  the  whole,  suited  to  the  cultivated  country 
in  which  it  is  placed. 

It  will  never  do  to  be  speculative  or  imaginative  in  our  de- 
tails, on  the  supposition  that  the  tendency  of  fine  scenery  is 
to  make  everybody  imaginative  and  enthusiastic.  Enthusiasm 
has  no  business  with  Turkey  carpets  or  easy  chairs  ;  and  the 
very  preparation  of  comfort  for  the  body,  which  the  existence 
of  the  villa  supposes,  is  inconsistent  with  the  supposition  of 
any  excitement  of  mind  :  and  this  is  another  reason  for  keep- 
ing the  domestic  building  in  richly  productive  country. 
Nature  has  set  aside  her  sublime  bits  for  us  to  feel  and  think 
in  ;  she  has  pointed  out  her  productive  bits  for  us  to  sleep 
and  eat  in  ;  and,  if  we  sleep  and  eat  amongst  the  sublimity, 
we  are  brutal ;  if  we  poetise  amongst  the  cultivation,  we  are 
absurd.  There  are  the  time  and  place  for  each  state  of 
existence,  and  we  should  not  jumble  that  which  Nature  has 
separated.  She  has  addressed  herself,  in  one  part,  wholly  to 
the  mind,  there  is  nothing  for  us  to  eat  but  bilberries,  nothing 
to  rest  upon  but  rock,  and  we  have  no  business  to  concoct 
pic-nics,  and  bring  cheese,  and  ale,  and  sandwiches,  in  baskets, 


THE  VILLA.  159 

to  gratify  our  beastly  natures,  where  Nature  never  intended 
us  to  eat  (if  she  had,  we  needn't  have  brought  the  baskets). 
In  the  other  part,  she  has  provided  for  our  necessities  ;  and 
we  are  very  absurd,  if  we  make  ourselves  fantastic,  instead  of 
comfortable.  Therefore,  all  that  we  ought  to  do  in  the  hill 
villa  is,  to  adapt  it  for  the  habitation  of  a  man  of  the  highest 
faculties  of  perception  and  feeling  ;  but  only  for  the  habitation 
of  his  hours  of  common  sense,  not  of  enthusiasm  ;  it  must  be 
his  dwelling  as  a  man,  not  as  a  spirit  ;  as  a  thing  liable  to  decay, 
not  as  an  eternal  energy  ;  as  a  perishable,  not  as  an  immortal 

Keeping,  then,  in  view  these  distinctions  of  form  between  the 
two  villas,  the  remaining  considerations  relate  equally  to  both. 

We  have  several  times  alluded  to  the  extreme  richness  and 
variety  of  hill  foregrounds,  as  an  internal  energy  to  which 
there  must  be  no  contrast.  Rawness  of  colour  is  to  be  es- 
pecially avoided,  but  so,  also,  is  poverty  of  effect.  It  will, 
therefore,  add  much  to  the  beauty  of  the  building,  if,  in  any 
conspicuous  and  harsh  angle  or  shadowy  moulding,  we  intro- 
duce a  wreath  of  carved  leaf-work,  in  stone,  of  course.  This 
sounds  startling  and  expensive  ;  but  we  are  not  thinking  of 
expense  :  what  ought  to  be,  not  what  can  be  afforded,  is  the 
question.  Besides,  when  all  expense  in  shamming  castles, 
building  pinnacles,  and  all  other  fantasticisms,  has  been  shown 
to  be  injurious,  that  which  otherwise  would  have  been  wasted 
in  plaster  battlements,  to  do  harm,  may  surely  be  devoted  to 
stone  leafage,  to  do  good.  Now,  if  there  be  too  much,  or  too 
conspicuous,  ornament,  it  will  destroy  simplicity  and  humility, 
and  everything  which  we  have  been  endeavouring  to  get ; 
therefore,  the  architect  must  be  careful,  and  had  better  have 
immediate  recourse  to  that  natural  beauty  with  which  he  is 
now  endeavouring  to  assimilate.  When  Nature  determines 
on  decorating  a  piece  of  projecting  rock,  she  begins  with  the 
bold  projecting  surface,  to  which  the  eye  is  naturally  drawn 
by  its  form,  and  (observe  how  closely  she  works  by  the  prin- 
ciples which  were  before  investigated)  she  finishes  this  with 
lichens,  and  mingled  colours,  to  a  degree  of  delicacy,  which 
makes  us  feel  that  we  never  can  look  close  enough  ;  but  she 
puts  in  not  a  single  mass  of  form  to  attract  the  eye,  more  than 


1GO  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

the  grand  outline  renders  necessary.  But,  where  the  rock 
joins  the  ground,  where  the  shadow  falls,  and  the  eye  is  not 
attracted,  she  puts  in  bold  forms  of  ornament,  large  leaves 
and  grass,  bunches  of  moss  and  heather,  strong  in  their  pro- 
jection, and  deep  in  their  colour.  Therefore,  the  architect 
must  act  on  precisely  the  same  principle  :  his  outward  surfaces 
he  may  leave  the  wind  and  weather  to  finish  in  their  own 

*/ 

way  ;  but  he  cannot  allow  Nature  to  put  grass  and  weeds  into 
the  shadows  ;  ergo,  he  must  do  it  himself ;  and,  whenever  the 
eye  loses  itself  in  shade,  wherever  there  is  a  dark  and  sharp 
corner,  there,  if  he  can,  he  should  introduce  a  wreath  of 
flower- work.  The  carving  will  be  preserved  from  the  weather 
by  this  very  propriety  of  situation  :  it  would  have  mouldered 
away,  had  it  been  exposed  to  the  full  drift  of  the  rain,  but 
will  remain  safe  in  the  crevices  where  it  is  required ;  and, 
also,  it  will  not  injure  the  general  effect,  but  will  lie  concealed 
until  we  approach,  and  then  rise  up,  as  it  were,  out  of  the 
darkness,  to  its  duty  ;  bestowing  on  the  dwellings  that  finish 
of  effect  which  is  manifested  around  them,  and  gratifying  the 
natural  requirement  of  the  mind  for  the  same  richness  in  the 
execution  of  the  designs  of  men,  which  it  has  found  on  a  near 
approach  lavished  so  abundantly,  in  a  distant  view  subdued 
so  beautifully  into  the  large  effects  of  the  designs  of  nature. 

Of  the  ornament  itself,  it  is  to  be  observed  that  it  is  not  to 
be  what  is  properly  called  architectural  decoration  (that  which 
is  "  decorous,"  becoming,  or  suitable  to) ;  namely,  the  com- 
bination of  minor  forms,  which  repeat  the  lines,  and  partake 
of  the  essence  of  the  grand  design,  and  carry  out  its  meaning 
and  life  into  its  every  member  :  but  it  is  to  be  true  sculpture  ; 
the  presenting  of  a  pure  ideality  of  form  to  the  eye,  which 
may  give  perfect  conception,  without  the  assistance  of  colour  : 
it  is  to  be  the  stone  image  of  vegetation,  not  botanically  ac- 
curate, indeed,  but  sufficiently  near  to  permit  us  to  be  sure  of 
the  intended  flower  or  leaf.  Not  a  single  line  of  any  other 
kind  of  ornament  should  be  admitted,  and  there  should  be 
more  leafage  than  flower-work,  as  it  is  the  more  easy  in  its 
flow  and  outline.  Deep  relief  need  not  be  attempted,  but  the 
edges  of  the  leafage  should  be  clearly  and  delicately  defined 


TEE   VILLA.  161 

The  cabbage,  the  vine,  and  the  ivy  are  the  best  and  most 
beautiful  leaves :  oak  is  a  little  too  stiff,  otherwise  good. 
Particular  attention  ought  to  be  paid  to  the  ease  of  the 
stems  and  tendrils  :  such  care  will  always  be  repaid.  And  it 
is  to  be  especially  observed,  that  the  carving  is  not  to  be  ar- 
ranged in  garlands  or  knots,  or  any  other  formalities,  as  in 
Gothic  work  ;  but  the  stalks  are  to  rise  out  of  the  stone,  as  if 
they  were  rooted  in  it,  and  to  fling  themselves  down  where 
they  are  wanted,  disappearing  again  in  light  sprays,  as  if  they 
were  still  growing.  All  this  will  require  care  in  designing  ; 
but,  as  we  have  said  before,  we  can  always  do  without  decora- 
tion ;  but,  if  we  have  it,  it  must  be  well  done.  It  is  not  of  the 
slightest  use  to  economise  ;  every  farthing  improperly  saved 
does  a  shilling's  worth  of  damage  ;  and  that  is  getting  a  bar- 
gain the  wrong  way.  When  one  branch  or  group  balances 
another,  they  must  be  different  in  composition.  The  same 
group  may  be  introduced  several  times  in  different  parts,  but 
not  when  there  is  correspondence,  or  the  effect  will  be  un- 
natural ;  and  it  can  hardly  be  too  often  repeated,  that  the 
ornament  must  be  kept  out  of  the  general  effect,  must  be  in- 
visible to  all  but  the  near  observer,  and,  even  to  him,  must 
not  become  a  necessary  part  of  the  design,  but  must  be  spar- 
ingly and  cautiously  applied,  so  as  to  appear  to  have  been 
thrown  in  by  chance  here  and  there,  as  Nature  would  have 
thrown  in  a  bunch  of  herbage,  affording  adornment  without 
concealment,  and  relief  without  interruption. 

So  much  for  form.  The  question  of  colour  has  already  been 
discussed  at  some  length,  in  speaking  of  the  cottage  ;  but  it 
is  to  be  noticed,  that  the  villa,  from  the  nature  of  its  situ- 
ation, gets  the  higher  hills  back  into  a  distance  which  is  three 
or  four  times  more  blue  than  any  piece  of  scenery  entering 
into  combination  with  the  cottage  ;  so  that  more  warmth  of 
colour  is  allowable  in  the  building,  as  well  as  greater  cheerful- 
ness of  effect.  It  should  not  look  like  stone,  as  the  cottage 
should,  but  should  teU  as  a  building  on  the  mind  as  well  as  the 
eye.  White,  therefore,  is  frequently  allowable  in  small  quan- 
tities, particularly  on  the  border  of  a  large  and  softly  shored 
lake,  like  Windermere  and  the  foot  of  Loch  Lomond ;  but 
11 


162  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

cream-colour,  and  putty-colour,  and  the  other  varieties  of  plas- 
ter colour,  are  inexcusable.  If  more  warmth  is  required  by  the 
situation  than  the  sun  will  give  on  white,  the  building  should 
be  darkened  at  once.  A  warm,  rich  grey  is  always  beautiful 
in  any  place  and  under  every  circumstance  ;  and,  in  fact,  un- 
less the  proprietor  likes  to  be  kept  damp  like  a  travelling  cod- 
fish, by  trees  about  his  house  and  close  to  it  (which,  if  it  be 
white,  he  must  have,  to  prevent  glare),  such  a  grey  is  the  only 
colour  which  will  be  beautiful,  or  even  innocent.  The  diffi- 
culty is  to  obtain  it ;  and  this  naturally  leads  to  the  question 
of  material.  If  the  colour  is  to  be  white,  we  can  have  no  orna- 
ment, for  the  shadows  would  make  it  far  too  conspicuous,  and 
we  should  get  only  tawdriness.  The  simple  forms  may  be  exe- 
cuted in  anything  that  will  stand  wet ;  and  the  roofs,  in  all 
cases,  should  be  of  the  coarse  slate  of  the  country,  as  rudely 
put  on  as  possible.  They  must  be  kept  clear  of  moss  and 
conspicuous  vegetation,  or  there  will  be  an  improper  appear- 
ance of  decay  ;  but  the  more  lichenous  the  better,  and  the 
rougher  the  slate  the  sooner  it  is  coloured.  If  the  colour  is  to 
be  grey,  we  may  use  the  grey  primitive  limestone,  which  is 
not  ragged  on  the  edges,  without  preparing  the  blocks  too 
smoothly ;  or  the  more  compact  and  pale-coloured  slate, 
which  is  frequently  done  in  Westmoreland  ;  and  execute  the 
ornaments  in  any  very  coarse  dark  marble.  Greenstone  is  an 
excellent  rock,  and  has  a  fine  surface,  but  it  is  unmanageable. 

The  greyer  granites  may  often  be  used  with  good  effect,  as 
well  as  the  coarse  porphyries,  when  the  grey  is  to  be  par- 
ticularly warm.  An  outward  surface  of  a  loose  block  may  be 
often  turned  to  good  account  in  turning  an  angle,  as  the 
colours  which  it  has  contracted  by  its  natural  exposure  will 
remain  on  it  without  inducing  damp.  It  is  always  to  be  re- 
membered, that  he  who  prefers  neatness  to  beauty,  and  who 
would  have  sharp  angles,  and  clean  surfaces,  in  preference  to 
curved  outlines  and  lichenous  colour,  has  no  business  to  live 
among  hills. 

Such,  then,  are  the  principal  points  to  be  kept  in  view  in 
the  edifice  itself.  Of  the  mode  of  uniting  it  with  the  near 
features  of  foliage  and  ground,  it  would  be  utterly  useless  to 


TEE  VILLA.  163 

speak :  it  is  a  question  of  infinite  variety,  and  involving  the 
whole  theory  of  composition,  so  that  it  would  take  up 
volumes  to  develope  principles  sufficient  to  guide  us  to  the 
result  which  the  feeling  of  the  practised  eye  would  arrive  at 
in  a  moment.  The  inequalities  of  the  ground,  the  character 
and  colour  of  those  inequalities,  the  nature  of  the  air,  the 
exposure,  and  the  consequent  fall  of  the  light,  the  quantity 
and  form  of  near  and  distant  foliage,  all  have  their  effect  on 
the  design,  and  should  have  their  influence  on  the  designer, 
inducing,  as  they  do,  a  perfect  change  of  circumstance  in 
every  locality.  Only  one  general  rule  can  be  given,  and  that 
we  repeat.  The  house  must  NOT  be  a  noun  substantive,  it 
must  not  stand  by  itself,  it  must  be  part  and  parcel  of  a  pro- 
portioned whole :  it  must  not  even  be  seen  all  at  once ;  and 
he  who  sees  one  end  should  feel  that,  from  the  given  data,  he 
can  arrive  at  no  conclusion  respecting  the  other,  yet  be  im- 
pressed with  a  feeling  of  a  universal  energy,  pervading  with 
its  beauty  of  unanimity  all  life  and  all  inanimation,  all  forms 
of  stillness  or  motion,  all  presence  of  silence  or  of  sound. 

Thus,  then,  we  have  reviewed  the  most  interesting  ex- 
amples of  existing  villa  architecture,  and  we  have  applied  the 
principles  derived  from  those  examples  to  the  landscape  of 
our  own  country.  Throughout,  we  have  endeavoured  to  direct 
attention  to  the  spirit,  rather  than  to  the  letter,  of  all  law, 
and  to  exhibit  the  beauty  of  that  principle  which  is  embodied 
in  the  line  with  which  we  have  headed  this  concluding  paper ; 
of  being  satisfied  with  national  and  natural  forms,  and  not  en- 
deavouring to  introduce  the  imaginations,  or  imitate  the  cus- 
toms, of  foreign  nations,  or  of  former  times.  All  imitation 
has  its  origin  in  vanity,  and  vanity  is  the  bane  of  architecture. 
And,  as  we  take  leave  of  them,  we  would,  once  for  all,  remind 
our  English  sons  of  Sempronius  "  qui  villas  attollunt  mar- 
more  novas,"  novas  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word,  and  who  are 
setting  all  English  feeling  and  all  natural  principles  at  de- 
fiance, that  it  is  only  the  bourgeois  gentilhomme  who  will  wear 
his  dressing-gown  upside  down,  "  parceque  toutes  les  per- 
sonnes  de  qualite  portent  les  fleurs  en  en-bas." 

Oxford,  October,  1838. 


164  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


WORKS  OF  ART. 

Whether  Works  of  Art  may,  with  Propriety,  be  combined  with 
the  Sublimity  of  Nature  ;  and  what  would  be  the  most  appro- 
priate Situation  for  the  proposed  Monument  to  the  Memory  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  Edinburgh  ?  By  KATA  PHUSIN. 

THE  question  which  has  been  brought  before  the  readers  of 
the  Architectural  Magazine  by  W.  is  one  of  peculiar  and  exces- 
sive interest ;  one  in  which  no  individual  has  any  right  to 
advance  an  opinion,  properly  so  called,  the  mere  result  of  his 
own  private  habits  of  feeling  ;  but  which  should  be  subjected, 
as  far  as  possible,  to  a  fixed  and  undoubted  criterion,  deduced 
from  demonstrable  principles  and  indisputable  laws.  There- 
fore, as  we  have  been  referred  to,  we  shall  endeavour,  in  as 
short  a  space  as  possible,  to  bring  to  bear  upon  the  question 
those  principles  whose  truth  is  either  distinctly  demonstrable, 
or  generally  allowed. 

The  question  resolves  into  two  branches.  First,  whether 
works  of  art  may  with  propriety,  be  combined  with  the  sub- 
limity of  nature.  This  is  a  point  which  is  discussable  by 
every  one.  And,  secondly,  what  will  be  the  most  appropriate 
locality  for  the  monument  to  Scott  at  Edinburgh.  And  this 
we  think  may  be  assumed  to  be  a  question  interesting  to,  and 
discussable  by,  one-third  of  the  educated  population  of  Great 
Britain :  as  that  proportion  is,  in  all  probability,  acquainted 
with  the  ups  and  downs  of  "  Auld  Reekie." 

For  the  first  branch  of  the  question,  we  have  to  confess 
ourselves  altogether  unable  to  conjecture  what  the  editor  of 
the  Courant  means  by  the  phrase  "  works  of  art,"  in  the  para- 
graph at  page  500.  Its  full  signification  embraces  all  the 
larger  creations  of  the  architect,  but  it  cannot  be  meant  to 
convey  such  a  meaning  here,  or  the  proposition  is  purer  non- 
sense than  we  ever  encountered  in  print.  Yet,  in  the  very 


WORKS  OF  ART.  165 

next  sentence,  our  editor  calls  Nelson's  Pillar  a  work  of  art, 
which  is  certainly  a  very  original  idea  of  his  ;  one  which 
might  give  rise  to  curious  conjectures  relative  to  the  accepta- 
tion of  the  word  "art"  in  Scotland,  which  here  would  seem 
to  be  a  condensed  expression  for  "1'art  de  se  faire  ridicule." 
However,  as  far  as  we  can  judge  from  the  general  force  of  the 
paragraph,  he  seems  to  mean  only  those  works  of  art  which 
are  intended  to  convey  a  certain  lesson,  or  impression,  to  the 
mind,  which  impression  can  only  be  consequent  upon  the  full 
examination  of  their  details,  and  which  is  therefore  always 
wanting  when  they  are  contemplated  from  a  distance  ;  so  that 
they  become  meaningless  in  a  piece  of  general  effect.*  All 
monuments  come  under  this  class  of  works  of  art,  and  to 
them  alone,  as  being  in  the  present  case  the  chief  objects  of 
investigation,  our  remarks  shall  be  confined. 

Monuments  are  referable  to  two  distinct  classes  :  those 
which  are  intended  to  recall  the  memory  of  life,  properly 
called  monuments  ;  and  those  which  are  intended  to  induce 
veneration  of  death,  properly  called  shrines  or  sepulchres. 
To  the  first  we  intrust  the  glory,  to  the  second,  the  ashes,  of 
the  dead.  The  monument  and  the  shrine  are  sometimes 
combined,  but  almost  invariably,  with  bad  effect ;  for  the 
very  simple  reason,  that  the  honour  of  the  monument  rejoices  ; 
the  honour  of  the  sepulchre  mourns.  When  the  two  feelings 
come  together,  they  neutralise  each  other,  and,  therefore, 
should  neither  be  expressed.  Their  unity,  however,  is,  when 
thus  unexpressed,  exquisitely  beautiful.  In  the  floor  of  the 
church  of  St.  Jean  and  Paul  at  Venice,  there  is  a  flat  square 
slab  of  marble,  on  which  is  the  word  "  Titianus."  This  is  at 
once  the  monument  and  the  shrine  ;  and  the  pilgrims  of  all 
nations  who  pass  by  feel  that  both  are  efficient,  when  their 
hearts  burn  within  them  as  they  turn  to  avoid  treading  on 
the  stone. 

But,  whenever  art  is  introduced  in  either  the  shrine  or  the 

*  For  instance,  the  obelisk  on  the  top  of  Whitaw,  mentioned  at  p.  502, 
is  seen  all  the  way  to  Carlisle  ;  and,  as  nobody  but  the  initiated  can  be 
aware  of  its  signification,  it  looks  like  an  insane  lamp-post  in  search  of 
the  picturesque. 


166  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

monument,  they  should  be  left  separate.  For,  again,  the 
place  of  his  repose  is  often  selected  by  the  individual  himself, 
or  by  those  who  loved  him,  under  the  influence  of  feelings 
altogether  unconnected  with  the  rushing  glory  of  his  past  ex- 
istence. The  grave  must  always  have  a  home  feeling  about 
its  peace  ;  it  should  have  little  connexion  with  the  various 
turbulence  which  has  passed  by  for  ever ;  it  should  be  the 
dwelling-place  and  the  bourne  of  the  affections,  rather  than 
of  the  intellect,  of  the  living  ;  for  the  thought  and  the  reason 
cannot  cling  to  the  dust,  though  the  weak  presence  of  invol- 
untary passion  fold  its  wings  for  ever  where  its  object  went 
down  into  darkness.  That  presence  is  always  to  a  certain  de- 
gree meaningless  ;  that  is,  it  is  a  mere  clinging  of  the  human 
soul  to  the  wrecks  of  its  delight,  without  any  definite  indica- 
tion of  purpose  or  reflection :  or,  if  the  lingering  near  the 
ashes  be  an  act  ennobled  by  the  higher  thoughts  of  religion, 
those  thoughts  are  common  to  all  mourners.  Claimed  by  all 
the  dead,  they  need  not  be  expressed,  for  they  are  not  exclu- 
sively our  own ;  and,  therefore,  we  find  that  these  affections 
most  commonly  manifest  themselves  merely  by  lavishing 
decoration  upon  the  piece  of  architecture  which  protects 
the  grave  from  profanation,  and  the  sepulchre  assumes  a  gen- 
eral form  of  beauty,  in  whose  rich  decoration  we  perceive 
veneration  for  the  dead,  but  nothing  more,  no  variety  of  ex- 
pression or  feeling.  Priest  and  layman  lie  with  their  lifted 
hands  in  semblance  of  the  same  repose ;  and  the  gorgeous 
canopies  above,  \vhile  they  address  the  universal  feelings,  tell 
no  tale  to  the  intellect.  But  the  case  is  different  with  the 
monument ;  there  we  are  addressing  the  intellectual  powers, 
the  memory  and  imagination  ;  everything  should  have  a 
peculiar  forcible  meaning,  and  architecture  alone  is  thor- 
oughly insipid,  even  in  combination  often  absurd.  The  situ- 
ation of  the  memorial  has  now  become  part  and  parcel  of  its 
expressive  power,  and  we  can  no  longer  allow  it  to  be  deter- 
mined by  the  affections  :  it  must  be  judged  of  by  a  higher 
and  more  certain  criterion.  That  criterion  we  shall  endeavour 
to  arrive  at,  observing,  en  passant,  that  the  proceeding  of  the 
committee,  in  requiring  architects  to  furnish  them  with  a  de- 


•WORKS  OF  ART.  167 

sign  without  knowing  the  situation,  is  about  as  reasonable  as 
requiring  them  to  determine  two  unknown  quantities  from 
one  equation.  If  they  want  the  "  ready  made "  style,  they 
had  better  go  to  the  first  stonemason's,  and  select  a  superfine 
marble  slab,  with  "  Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  Physi- 
cians was  in  vain,"  &c.,  ready  cut  thereon.  We  could  hardly 
have  imagined  that  any  body  of  men  could  have  possessed  so 
extraordinarily  minute  a  sum  total  of  sense. 

But  to  the  point.  The  effect  of  all  works  of  art  is  twofold  ; 
on  the  mind  and  on  the  eye.  First,  we  have  to  determine 
how  the  situation  is  to  be  chosen,  with  relation  to  the  effect 
on  the  mind.  The  respect  which  we  entertain  for  any  indi- 
vidual depends  in  a  greater  degree  upon  our  sympathy  with 
the  pervading  energy  of  his  character,  than  upon  our  admira- 
tion of  the  mode  in  which  that  energy  manifests  itself.  That 
is,  the  fixed  degree  of  intellectual  power  being  granted,  the 
degree  of  respect  which  we  pay  to  its  particular  manifestation 
depends  upon  our  sympathy  with  the  cause  which  directed 
that  manifestation.  Thus,  every  one  will  grant  that  it  is  a 
noble  thing  to  win  successive  battles  ;  yet  no  one  ever  ad- 
mired Napoleon,  who  was  not  ambitious.  So,  again,  the  more 
we  love  our  country,  the  more  we  admire  Leonidas.  This, 
which  is  our  natural  and  involuntary  mode  of  estimating  ex- 
cellence, is  partly  just  and  partly  unjust.  It  is  just,  because 
we  look  to  the  motive  rather  than  to  the  action  ;  it  is  unjust, 
because  we  admire  only  those  motives  from  which  we  feel 
that  we  ourselves  act,  or  desire  to  act :  yet,  just  or  unjust,  it 
is  the  mode  which  we  always  employ  ;  and,  therefore,  when 
we  wish  to  excite  admiration  of  any  given  character,  it  is  not 
enough  to  point  to  his  actions  or  his  writings,  we  must  indi- 
cate as  far  as  possible  the  nature  of  the  ruling  spirit  which  in- 
duced the  deed,  or  pervaded  the  meditation.  Now,  this  can 
never  be  done  directly  ;  neither  inscription  nor  allegory  is 
sufficient  to  inform  the  feelings  of  that  which  would  most  af- 
fect them  ;  the  latter,  indeed,  is  a  dangerous  and  doubtful 
expedient  in  all  cases  :  but  it  can  frequently  be  done  indi- 
rectly, by  pointing  to  the  great  first  cause,  to  the  nursing 
mother,  so  to  speak,  of  the  ruling  spirit  whose  presence  we 


168  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

would  indicate  ;  and  by  directing  the  attention  of  the  specta- 
tor to  those  objects  which  were  its  guides  and  modifiers, 
which  became  to  it  the  objects  of  one  or  both  of  the  universal 
and  only  moving  influences  of  life,  hope  or  love  ;  which  ex- 
cited and  fostered  within  it  that  feeling  which  is  the  essence 
and  glory  of  all  noble  minds,  indefinable  except  in  the  words 
of  one  who  felt  it  above  many. 

"The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow  ; 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow." 

Now,  it  is  almost  always  in  the  power  of  the  monument  to 
indicate  this  first  cause  by  its  situation  ;  for  that  cause  must 
have  been  something  in  human,  or  in  inanimate,  nature.*  We 
can  therefore  always  select  a  spot  where  that  part  of  human 
or  inanimate  nature  is  most  peculiarly  manifested,  and  we 
should  always  do  this  in  preference  to  selecting  any  scenes  of 
celebrated  passages  in  the  individual's  life  ;  for  those  scenes 
are  in  themselves  the  best  monuments,  and  are  injured  by 
every  addition.  Let  us  observe  a  few  examples.  The  monu- 
ment to  the  Swiss  who  fell  at  Paris,  defending  the  king,  in 
1790,  is  not  in  the  halls  of  the  Tuileries,  which  they  fortified 
with  their  bodies  ;  but  it  is  in  the  very  heart  of  the  land  in 
which  their  faithfulness  was  taught  and  cherished,  and  whose 
children  they  best  approved  themselves  in  death  :  it  is  cut 
out  in  their  native  crags,  in  the  midst  of  their  beloved  moun- 
tains ;  the  pure  streams  whose  echo  sounded  in  their  ears  for 
ever  flow  and  slumber  beside  and  beneath  it ;  the  glance  of 
the  purple  glaciers,  the  light  of  the  moving  lakes,  the  folds  of 
the  crimson  clouds,  encompass,  with  the  glory  which  was  the 
nurse  of  their  young  spirits,  and  which  gleamed  in  the  dark- 
ness of  their  dying  eyes,  the  shadowy  and  silent  monument 
which  is  at  once  the  emblem  of  their  fidelity  and  the  memorial 
of  what  it  cost  them. 

*  If  in  divine  nature,  it  is  not  a  distinctive  cause  ;  it  occasioned  not  the 
peculiarity  of  the  individual's  character,  but  an  approximation  to  that 
general  character  whose  attainment  is  perfection. 


WORKS  OF  ART.  169 

Again,  the  chief  monument  to  Napoleon  is  not  on  the  crest 
of  the  Pennine  Alps,  nor  by  the  tower  of  San  Juliano,  nor  on 
the  heights  above  which  the  sun  rose  on  Austerlitz  ;  for  in  all 
these  places  it  must  have  been  alone  :  but  it  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  city  of  his  dominion  ;  in  the  midst  of  men,  in  the  mo- 
tion of  multitudes,  wherein  the  various  and  turbulent  motives 
which  guided  his  life  are  still  working  and  moving  and  strug- 
gling through  the  mass  of  humanity ;  he  stands  central  to  the 
restless  kingdom  and  capital,  looking  down  upon  the  nucleus 
of  feeling  and  energy,  upon  the  focus  of  all  light,  within  the 
vast  dependent  dominion. 

So,  again,  the  tomb  of  Shelley,  which,  as  I  think,  is  his  only 
material  monument,  is  in  the  "  slope  of  green  access  "  whose 
inhabitants  "have  pitched  in  heaven's  smile  their  camp  of 
death,"  and  which  is  in  the  very  centre  of  the  natural  light 
and  loveliness  which  were  his  inspiration  and  his  life  ;  and  he 
who  stands  beside  the  grey  pyramid  in  the  midst  of  the  grave, 
the  city,  and  the  wilderness,  looking  abroad  upon  the  unim- 
aginable immeasurable  glory  of  the  heaven  and  the  earth,  can 
alone  understand  or  appreciate  the  power  and  the  beauty  of 
that  mind  which  here  dwelt  and  hence  departed.  We  have 
not  space  to  show  how  the  same  principle  is  developed  in  the 
noble  shrines  of  the  Scaligers  at  Verona  ;  in  the  colossal  statue 
of  San  Carlo  Borromeo,  above  the  Lago  Maggiore  ;  and  in 
the  lonely  tomb  beside  the  mountain  church  of  Arqua*  :  but 
we  think  enough  has  been  said  to  show  what  we  mean.  Now, 
from  this  principle  we  deduce  the  grand  primary  rule  :  when- 
ever the  conduct  or  the  writings  of  any  individual  have  been 
directed  or  inspired  by  feelings  regarding  man,  let  his  monu- 


*  We  wish  we  could  remember  some  instance  of  equal  fitness  in  Brit- 
ian,  but  we  shrink  from  the  task  of  investigation  :  for  there  rise  up  be- 
fore our  imagination  a  monotonous  multitude  of  immortal  gentlemen, 
in  nightshirts  and  bare  feet,  looking  violently  ferocious  ;  with  corre- 
sponding young  ladies,  looking  as  if  they  did  not  exactly  know  what  to 
do  with  themselves,  occupied  in  pushing  laurel  crowns  as  far  down  as 
they  will  go  on  the  pericrania  of  the  aforesaid  gentlemen  in  nightshirts ; 
and  other  young  ladies  expressing  their  perfect  satisfaction  at  the  whole 
proceeding  by  blowing  penny  trumpets  in  the  rear. 


170  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

ment  be  among  men  ;  whenever  they  have  been  directed  01 
inspired  by  nature,  let  nature  be  intrusted  with  the  monu- 
ment. 

Again,  all  monuments  to  individuals  are,  to  a  certain  extent, 
triumphant ;  therefore,  they  must  not  be  placed  where  nature 
has  no  elevation  of  character,  except  in  a  few  rare  cases.  For 
instance,  a  monument  to  Isaac  Walton  would  be  best  placed 
in  a  low  green  meadow,  within  sight  of  some  secluded  and 
humble  village  ;  but,  in  general,  elevation  of  character  is  re- 
quired. Hence  it  appears,  that,  as  far  as  the  feeling  of  the 
thing  is  concerned,  works  of  art  should  be  often  combined 
with  the  bold  and  beautiful  scenery  of  nature.  Where,  for 
instance,  we  would  ask  of  the  editor  of  the  Gourant,  would 
he  place  a  monument  to  Virgil  or  to  Salvator  Rosa.  We  think 
his  answer  would  be  very  inconsistent  with  his  general  propo- 
sition. There  are,  indeed,  a  few  circumstances,  by  which  ar- 
gument on  the  other  side  might  be  supported.  For  instance, 
in  contemplating  any  memorial,  we  are  apt  to  feel  as  if  it 
were  weak  and  inefficient,  unless  we  have  a  sense  of  its  pub- 
licity ;  but  this  want  is  amply  counterbalanced  by  a  corre- 
sponding advantage  :  the  public  monument  is  perpetually 
desecrated  by  the  familiarity  of  unfeeling  spectators,  and  palls 
gradually  upon  the  minds  even  of  those  who  revere  it,  becom- 
ing less  impressive  with  the  repetition  of  its  appeals  ;  the  se- 
cluded monument  is  unprofaned  by  careless  contemplation, 
is  sought  out  by  those  for  whom  alone  it  was  erected,  and 
found  where  the  mind  is  best  prepared  to  listen  to  its  lan- 
guage. 

So  much  for  the  effect  of  monuments  on  the  mind.  We 
have  next  to  determine  their  effect  on  the  eye,  which  the 
editor  is  chiefly  thinking  of  when  he  speaks  of  the  "  finish  of 
art."  He  is  right  so  far,  that  graceful  art  will  not  unite  with 
ungraceful  nature,  nor  finished  art  with  unfinished  nature,  if 
such  a  thing  exists ;  but,  if  the  character  of  the  art  be  well 
suited  to  that  of  the  given  scene,  the  highest  richness  and 
finish  that  man  can  bestow  will  harmonise  most  beautifully 
with  the  yet  more  abundant  richness,  the  yet  more  exquisite 
finish,  which  nature  can  present.  It  is  to  be  observed,  how- 


WORKS  OF  ART.  171 

ever,  that,  in  such  combination,  the  art  is  not  to  be  a  perfect 
whole  ;  it  is  to  be  assisted  by,  as  it  is  associated  with,  con- 
comitant circumstances  :  for,  in  all  cases  of  effect,  that  which 
does  not  increase  destroys,  and  that  which  is  not  useful  is 
intrusive.  Now,  all  allegory  must  be  perfect  in  itself,  or  it  is 
absurd ;  therefore,  allegory  cannot  be  combined  with  nature. 
This  is  one  important  and  imperative  rule.*  Again,  Nature 
is  never  mechanical  in  her  arrangements ;  she  never  allows 
two  members  of  her  composition  exactly  to  correspond :  ac- 
cordingly, in  every  piece  of  art  which  is  to  combine,  without 
gradations,  with  landscape  (as  must  always  be  the  case  in 
monuments),  we  must  not  allow  a  multitude  of  similar  mem- 
bers ;  the  design  must  be  a  dignified  and  simple  whole. 
These  two  rules  being  observed,  there  is  hardly  any  limit  to 
to  the  variety  and  beauty  of  effect  which  may  be  attained  by 
the  fit  combination  of  art  and  nature.  For  instance,  we  have 
spoken  already  of  the  monument  to  the  Swiss,  as  it  affects  the 
mind  ;  we  may  again  adduce  it,  as  a  fine  address  to  the  eye. 
A  tall  crag  of  grey  limestone  rises  in  a  hollow,  behind  the 
town  of  Lucerne  ;  it  is  surrounded  with  thick  foliage  of  vari- 
ous and  beautiful  colour ;  a  small  stream  falls  gleaming 
through  one  of  its  fissures,  and  finds  its  way  into  a  deep,  clear, 
and  quiet  pool  at  its  base,  an  everlasting  mirror  of  the  bit  of 
bright  sky  above,  that  lightens  between  the  dark  spires  of  the 
uppermost  pines.  There  is  a  deep  and  shadowy  hollow  at 
the  base  of  the  cliff,  increased  by  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor ; 
and  in  the  darkness  of  its  shade,  cut  in  the  living  rock,  lies  a 
dying  lion,  with  its  foot  on  a  shield  bearing  the  fleur-de-lis, 
and  a  broken  lance  in  its  side.  Now,  let  us  imagine  the  same 
figure,  placed  as  the  editor  of  the  Courant  would  place  it,  in 
the  market-place  of  the  town,  on  a  square  pedestal  just  allow- 

*  It  is  to  be  observed,  however,  that,  if  the  surrounding  features  could 
be  made  a  part  of  the  allegory,  their  combination  might  be  proper ;  but 
this  is  impossible,  if  the  allegorical  images  be  false  imaginations,  for  we 
cannot  make  truth  a  part  of  fiction  :  but,  where  the  allegorical  images 
are  representations  of  truth,  bearing  a  hidden  signification,  it  is  some- 
times possible  to  make  nature  a  part  of  the  allegory,  and  then  we  have 
good  effect,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Lucerne  Lion  above  mentioned. 


172  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

ing  room  for  its  tail.  Query,  have  we  not  lost  a  little  of  the 
expression  ?  We  could  multiply  instances  of  the  same  kind 
without  number.  The  fountains  of  Italy,  for  instance,  often 
break  out  among  foliage  and  rock,  in  the  most  exquisite  com- 
binations, bearing  upon  their  fonts  lovely  vestiges  of  ancient 
sculpture  ;  and  the  rich  road-side  crosses  and  shrines  of  Ger- 
many have  also  noble  effect :  but,  we  think,  enough  has  been 
said,  to  show  that  the  utmost  finish  of  art  is  not  inappropriate 
among  the  nobler  scenes  of  nature,  especially  where  pensive- 
ness  is  mixed  with  the  pride  of  the  monument,  its  beauty  is 
altogether  lost  by  its  being  placed  in  the  noise  and  tumult  of 
a  city. 

But  it  must  be  allowed,  that,  however  beautiful  the  combi- 
nation may  be,  when  well  managed,  it  requires  far  more  taste 
and  skill  on  the  part  of  the  designer,  than  the  mere  associa- 
tion of  architecture,  and  therefore,  from  the  want  of  such 
taste  and  skill,  there  is  a  far  greater  chance  of  our  being  of- 
fended by  impropriety  in  the  detached  monument,  than  in 
that  which  is  surrounded  by  architectural  forms.  And  it  is 
also  to  be  observed,  that  monuments  which  are  to  form  part 
of  the  sublimity  as  well  as  the  beauty  of  a  landscape,  and  to 
unite  in  general  and  large  effects,  require  a  strength  of  ex- 
pression, a  nobility  of  outline,  and  a  simplicity  of  design, 
which  very  few  architects  or  sculptors  are  capable  of  giving ; 
and  that,  therefore,  in  such  situations  they  are  nine  times  out 
of  ten  injurious,  not  because  there  is  anything  necessarily 
improper  in  their  position,  but  because  there  is  much  incon- 
gruity with  the  particular  design. 

So  much  for  general  principles.  Now  for  the  particular 
case.  Edinburgh,  at  the  first  glance,  appears  to  be  a  city  pre- 
senting an  infinite  variety  of  aspect  and  association,  and  em- 
barrassing rather  by  rivalry,  than  by  paucity  of  advantage  : 
but,  on  closer  consideration,  every  spot  of  the  city  and  its  en- 
virons appears  to  be  affected  by  some  degrading  influence, 
which  neutralizes  every  effect  of  actual  or  historical  interest, 
and  renders  the  investigation  of  the  proper  site  for  the  mon- 
ument in  question  about  as  difficult  a  problem  as  could  well  be 
proposed.  Edinburgh  is  almost  the  only  city  we  remember, 


WORKS  OF  ART.  173 

which  presents  not  a  single  point  in  which  there  is  not  some- 
thing striking  and  even  sublime  ;  it  is  also  the  only  city  which 
presents  not  a  single  point  in  which  there  is  not  something 
degrading  and  disgusting.  Throughout  its  whole  extent,  wher- 
ever there  is  life  there  is  filth,  wherever  there  is  cleanliness 
there  is  desolation.  The  new  town  is  handsome  from  its  com- 
mand of  the  sea  ;  but  it  is  as  stupid  as  Pompeii  without  its 
reminiscences.  The  old  town  is  delicious  in  life  and  archi- 
tecture and  association,  but  it  is  one  great  open  common 
sewer.  The  rocks  of  the  castle  are  noble  in  themselves,  but 
they  guide  the  eye  to  barracks  at  the  top  and  cauliflowers  at 
the  bottom  ;  the  Calton,  though  commanding  a  glorious  group 
of  city,  mountain,  and  ocean,  is  suspended  over  the  very  jaws 
of  perpetually  active  chimneys  ;  and  even  Arthur's  seat,  though 
fine  in  form,  and  clean,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal,  is  a  mere 
heap  of  black  cinders,  Vesuvius  without  its  vigour  or  its  vines. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  monument  is  to  be  at  Edinburgh,  we 
must  do  the  best  we  can.  The  first  question  is,  Are  we  to 
have  it  in  the  city  or  the  country  ?  and,  to  decide  this,  we  must 
determine  which  was  Scott's  ruling  spirit,  the  love  of  nature 
or  of  man. 

His  descriptive  pieces  are  universally  allowed  to  be  livery 
and  characteristic,  but  not  first  rate  ;  they  have  been  far  ex- 
celled by  many  writers,  for  the  simple  reason,  that  Scott, 
while  he  brings  his  landscape  clearly  before  his  reader's  eyes, 
puts  no  soul  into  it,  when  he  has  done  so  ;  while  other  poets 
give  a  meaning  and  a  humanity  to  every  part  of  nature,  which 
is  to  loveliness  what  the  breathing  spirit  is  to  the  human  coun- 
tenance. We  have  not  space  for  quotations,  but  any  one  may 
understand  our  meaning,  who  will  compare  Scott's  description 
of  the  Dell  of  the  Greta,  in  Eokeby,  with  the  speech  of  Bea- 
trice, beginning  "  But  I  remember,  two  miles  on  this  side  of 
the  fort,"  in  Act  iii.  Scene  1  of  tlieCenci ;  or  who  will  take  the 
trouble  to  compare  carefully  any  piece  he  chooses  of  Scott's 
proudest  description,  with  bits  relating  to  similar  scenery  in 
Coleridge,  or  Shelley,  or  Byron  (though  the  latter  is  not  so 
first  rate  in  description  as  in  passion).  Now,  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  some  kinds  of  human  nature,  Scott  has  never  been 


174 


TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 


surpassed,  and  therefore  it  might  at  first  appear  that  his  in- 
fluence of  inspiration  was  in  man.  Not  so  ;  for,  when  such  is 
the  case,  nationality  has  little  power  over  the  author,  and  he 
can  usurp  as  he  chooses  the  feelings  of  the  inhabitants  of  every 
point  of  earth.  Observe,  for  instance,  how  Shakspeare  be- 
comes a  Venetian,  or  a  Koman,  or  a  Greek,  or  an  Egyptian, 
and  with  equal  facility.  Not  so  Scott ;  his  peculiar  spirit  was 
that  of  his  native  land ;  therefore,  it  related  not  to  the  whole 


FIG.  46. 

essence  of  man,  but  to  that  part  of  his  essence  dependent  on 
locality,  and  therefore,  on  nature.*  The  inspiration  of  Scott, 
therefore,  was  derived  from  nature,  and  fed  by  mankind.  Ac- 
cordingly, his  monument  must  be  amidst  natural  scenery,  yet 
within  sight  of  the  works  and  life  of  men. 

This  point  being  settled  saves  us  a  great  deal  of  trouble, 
for  we  must  go  out  towards  Arthur's  Seat,  to  get  anything  of 

*  Observe,  the  ruling  spirit  may  arise  out  of  nature,  and  yet  not  limit 
the  conception  to  a  national  character  ;  but  it  never  so  limits  the  con- 
ception, unless  it  has  arisen  out  of  nature. 


WORKS  OF  ART.  175 

country  near  Edinburgh,  and  thus  our  speculations  are  con- 
siderably limited  at  once.  The  site  recommended  by  W.  nat- 
urally occurs  as  conspicuous,  but  it  has  many  disadvantages. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  vain  to  hope  that  any  new  erection  could 
exist,  without  utterly  destroying  the  effect  of  the  ruins.  These 
are  only  beautiful  from  their  situation,  but  that  situation  is 
particularly  good.  Seen  from  the  west  in  particular  (Fig.  46), 
the  composition  is  extraordinarily  scientific  ;  the  group  begin- 
ning with  the  concave  sweep  on  the  right,  rising  up  the 
broken  crags  which  form  the  summit,  and  give  character  to 
the  mass  ;  then  the  tower,  which,  had  it  been  on  the  highest 
point,  would  have  occasioned  rigidity  and  formality,  project- 
ing from  the  flank  of  the  mound,  and  yet  keeping  its  rank  as 
a  primary  object,  by  rising  higher  than  the  summit  itself ; 

finally,  the  bold,  broad,  and  broken  curve,        

sloping  down  to  the  basalt  crags  that  sup-  47 

port  the  whole,  and  forming  the  large  branch 
of  the  great  ogee  curve  (Fig.  46),  from  a  to  b.     Now,  we  defy 
the  best  architect  in  the  world,  to  add  anything  to  this  bit  of 
composition,  and  not  spoil  it. 

Again,  W.  says,  first,  that  the  monument  "  could  be  placed 
so  as  to  appear  quite  distinct  and  unconnected"  with  the 
ruins  ;  and,  a  few  lines  below,  he  says,  that  its  effect  will  be 
"taken  in  connection  with  the  ruins."  Now,  though  Charles 
Lamb  says  that  second  thoughts  are  not  best,  with  W.  they 
very  certainly  are  ;  the  effect  would,  without  doubt,  be  taken 
in  very  close  connexion  with  the  ruins,  rather  too  close,  indeed, 
for  the  comfort  of  either  monument :  both  would  be  utterly 
spoiled.  Nothing  in  the  way  of  elevated  architecture  will 
harmonise  with  ruin,  but  ruin :  evidence  of  present  humble 
life,  a  cottage  or  pigsty,  for  instance,  built  up  against  the  old 
wall,  is  often  excellent  by  way  of  contrast,  but  the  addition  or 
association  of  high  architecture  is  total  destruction. 

But  suppose  we  were  to  throw  the  old  chapel  down,  would 
the  site  be  fit  for  Scott  ?  Not  by  any  means.  It  is  conspicu- 
ous certainly,  but  only  conspicuous  to  the  London  road,  and 
the  Leith  glass-houses.  It  is  visible  certainly  from  the  Calton 
and  the  Castle :  but,  from  the  first,  barely  distinguishable 


176  TEE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

from  the  huge,  black,  overwhelming  cliff  behind ;  and,  from 
the  second,  the  glimpse  of  it  is  slight  and  unimportant,  for  it 
merely  peeps  out  from  behind  -the  rise  to  Salisbury  Crags,  and 
the  bold  mound  on  which  it  stands  is  altogether  concealed ; 
while,  from  St.  Leonard's  and  the  south  approaches,  it  is  quite 
invisible.  Then  for  the  site  itself,  it  is  a  piece  of  perfect  des- 
olation ;  a  lonely  crag  of  broken  basalt,  covered  with  black 
debris,  which  have  fallen  from  time  to  time  from  the  cliffs 
above,  and  lie  in  massive  weedy  confusion  along  the  flanks  and 
brow  of  the  hill,  presenting  to  the  near  spectator  the  porous 
hollows,  and  scoriaceous  lichenless  surface,  which  he  scarcely 
dares  to  tread  on,  lest  he  should  find  it  yet  scorching  from 
its  creative  fires.  This  is,  indeed,  a  scene  well  adapted  for 
the  grey  and  shattered  ruins,  but  altogether  unfit  for  the  pale 
colours  and  proportioned  form  of  any  modern  monument. 

Lastly,  suppose  that  even  the  actual  site  were  well  chosen, 
the  huge  and  shapeless  cliff  immediately  above  would  crush 
almost  any  mass  of  good  proportion.  The  ruins  themselves 
provoke  no  comparison,  for  they  do  not  pretend  to  size,  but 
any  colossal  figure  or  column,  or  any  fully  proportioned  archi- 
tectural form,  would  be  either  crushed  by  the  cliff,  or  would 
be  totally  out  of  proportion  with  the  mound  on  which  it 
would  stand. 

These  considerations  are  sufficient  to  show  that  the  site  of 
St.  Anthony's  Chapel  is  not  a  good  one  ;  but  W.  may  prove, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  better.  Were 
there  any  such  lonely  dingle  scenery  here  as  that  of  Hawthorn- 
den,  or  any  running  water  of  any  kind  near,  something  might 
be  done  ;  but  the  sculptor  must  be  bold  indeed,  who  dares  to 
deal  with  bare  turf  and  black  basalt.  The  only  idea  which 
strikes  us  as  in  the  least  degree  tolerable  is  this  ;  where  the 
range  of  Salisbury  Crags  gets  low  and  broken,  towards  the 
north,  at  about  the  point  of  equal  elevation  with  St.  Anthony's 
Chapel,  let  a  bold  and  solid  mass  of  mason-work  be  built  out 
from  the  cliff,  in  grey  stone,  broken  like  natural  rock,  rising 
some  four  or  five  feet  above  the  brow  of  the  crag,  and  sloping 
down,  not  too  steeply,  into  the  bank  below.  This  must  be 
built  fairly  into  the  cliff  to  allow  for  disintegration.  At  the 


WORKS  OF  ART.  177 

foot  of  this,  let  a  group  of  figures,  not  more  than  five  in  num- 
ber, be  carved  in  the  solid  rock,  in  the  dress  of  Border  shep- 
herds, with  the  plaid  and  bonnet  (a  good  costume  for  the  sculp* 
tor),  in  easy  attitudes ;  sleeping  perhaps,  reclining  at  any  rate. 
On  the  brow  of  this  pedestal,  let  a  colossal  figure  of  Scott  be 
placed,  with  the  arms  folded,  looking  towards  the  castle. 

The  first  advantage  of  this  disposition  will  be,  that  the 
position  of  the  figure  will  be  natural ;  for  if  the  fancy  endow 
it  with  life,  it  will  seem  to  stand  on  the  brow  of  the  cliff  itself, 
looking  upon  the  city,  while  the  superior  elevation  of  the 
pedestal  will  nevertheless  keep  it  distinctly  a  statue. 

The  second  advantage  is,  that  it  will  be  crushed  by  no 
supereminent  mass,  and  will  not  be  among  broken  ruins  of 
fallen  rocks,  but  upon  the  brow  of  a  solid  range  of  hill. 

The  greatest  advantage  will  be  the  position  of  the  figure 
with  relation  to  the  scenes  of  Scott's  works.  Holyrood  will 
be  on  its  right ;  St.  Leonard's  at  its  feet ;  the  Canongate,  and 
the  site  of  the  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,  directly  in  front ;  the 
Castle  above ;  and,  beyond  its  towers,  right  in  the  apparent 
glance  of  the  figure,  will  be  the  plain  of  Stirling  and  the  dis- 
tant peaks  of  the  Highland  Hills.  The  figure  will  not  be  dis- 
tinctly visible  from  the  London  road,  but  it  will  be  in  full  view 
from  any  part  of  the  city  ;  and  there  will  be  very  few  of  Scott's 
works,  from  some  one  of  the  localities,  of  which  the  spectator 
may  not,  with  a  sufficiently  good  glass,  discern  this  monument. 

But  the  disadvantages  of  the  design  are  also  manifold. 
First,  the  statue,  if  in  marble,  will  be  a  harsh  interruption  to 
;, the  colour  of  the  cliffs;  and,  if  in  grey  stone,  must  be  of 
coarse  workmanship.  Secondly,  whatever  it  is  worked  in, 
must  be  totally  exposed,  and  the  abominable  Scotch  climate 
will  amuse  itself  by  drawing  black  streaks  down  each  side  of 
the  nose.  One  cannot  speculate  here  as  in  Italy,,  where  a 
marble  Cupid  might  face  wind  and  weather  for  years,  without 
damage  accruing  to  one  dimple ;  the  Edinburgh  climate  would 
undermine  the  constitution  of  a  colossus.  Again,  the  pedes- 
tal must  necessarily  be  very  high  ;  even  at  the  low  part  of  the 
cliffs,  it  would  be,  we  suppose,  40  or  50  feet  :  then  the  statue 
must  be  in  proportion,  say  10  or  12  feet  high.  Jfow,  statues. 


178  THE  POETRY  OF  ARCHITECTURE. 

of  this  size  are  almost  always  awkward ;  and  people  are  apt  to 
joke  upon  them,  to  speculate  upon  the  probable  effect  of  a 
blow  from  their  fists,  or  a  shake  of  their  hand,  etc.,  and  a 
monument  should  never  induce  feelings  of  this  kind.  In  the 
case  of  the  statue  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo,  which  is  72  feet  high 
without  the  pedestal,  people  forget  to  whom  it  was  erected,  in 
the  joke  of  getting  into  its  skull,  and  looking  out  at  its  eye. 

Lastly,  in  all  monuments  of  this  kind,  there  is  generally 
some  slight  appearance  of  affectation  ;  of  an  effort  at  theatri- 
cal effect,  which,  if  the  sculptor  has  thrown  dignity  enough 
into  the  figure  to  reach  the  effect  aimed  at,  is  not  offensive  ; 
but,  if  he  fails,  as  he  often  will,  becomes  ridiculous  to  some 
minds,  and  painful  to  others.  None  of  this  forced  sentiment 
would  be  apparent  in  a  monument  placed  in  a  city  ;  but  for 
what  reason  ?  Because  a  monument  so  placed  has  no  effect 
on  the  feelings  at  all,  and  therefore  cannot  be  offensive,  be- 
cause it  cannot  be  sublime.  When  carriages,  and  dust-carts, 
and  drays,  and  muffin-men,  and  post-men,  and  foot-men,  and 
little  boys,  and  nursery-maids,  and  milk-maids,  and  all  the 
other  noisy  living  things  of  a  city,  are  perpetually  rumbling 
and  rattling,  and  roaring  and  crying,  about  the  monument,  it 
is  utterly  impossible  that  it  should  produce  any  effect  upon 
the  mind,  and  therefore  as  impossible  that  it  should  offend  as 
that  it  should  delight.  It  then  becomes  a  mere  address  to 
the  eye,  and  we  may  criticise  its  proportions,  and  its  work- 
manship, but  we  never  can  become  filled  with  its  feeling.  In 
the  isolated  case,  there  is  an  immediate  impression  produced 
of  some  kind  or  other  ;  but,  as  it  will  vary  with  every  indi- 
vidual, it  must  in  some  cases  offend,  even  if  on  the  average  it 
be  agreeable.  The  choice  to  be  made,  therefore,  is  between 
offending  a  few,  and  affecting  none  ;  between  simply  abiding 
the  careless  arbitration  of  the  intellect,  and  daring  the  finer 
judgment  of  the  heart.  Surely,  the  monument  which  Scot- 
land erects  in  her  capital,  to  her  noblest  child,  should  appeal, 
not  to  the  mechanical  and  cold  perceptions  of  the  brain  and 
eye,  but  to  a  prouder  and  purer  criterion,  the  keen  and  quick 
emotions  of  the  ethereal  and  enlightening  spirit, 

Oxford^  October  20,  1839. 


POEMS 

BY 
JOHN  RUSKIN 


PKEFACE. 


THE  poems  collected  in  the  following  pages  have  been 
printed  from  the  original  published  copies,  great  care  having 
been  taken  to  follow  the  author's  text,  with  the  exception  of 
certain  needed  changes  in  the  orthography. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  all  of  Buskin's  verse-making 
was  confined  to  his  youthful  days,  and  was  for  the  most  part 
dated  from  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  over  the  initials  J.  R 
The  first  poem,  "  Saltzburg,"  was  written  in  the  author's  six- 
teenth year,  the  last,  "The  Glacier,"  but  eleven  years  later. 
"  The  Broken  Chain "  was  appropriately  published  at  inter- 
vals— the  first  two  parts  appearing  in  1840,  the  third  in  1841, 
the  fourth  in  1842,  and  the  fifth  and  last  part  in  the  year  fol- 
lowing. 

All  of  these  poems,  with  the  exception  of  "Salsette  and 
Elephanta,"  were  published  in  the  Annuals  so  popular  during 
England's  golden-age  of  steel  engraving,  but  no  collection 
was  made  until  1850,  when  the  author  issued  a  privately 
printed  edition,  of  such  limited  number,  that  copies  have  be- 
come virtually  inaccessible  except  to  the  most  rabid  biblio- 
maniac, whose  heavy  purse  enables  him  to  successfully  out- 
bid competitors  in  the  auction  room  and  bookstore.1 

To  those  who  appreciate  the  intense  personality  of  the 
author,  these  verses  will  afford  much  insight  into  his  char- 
acter. The  weird  and  somewhat  melancholy  train  of  thought 
which  pervades  all  of  his  poetry  is  certainly  remarkable,  when 
we  consider  that  it  was  written  at  an  age  that  is  popularly 
supposed  to  be  under  the  influence  of  rose-colored  visions 
rather  than  the  grim  churchyard  aspect  which  pervades  every 
line  of  these  metrical  effusions  of  the  autocratic  art-critic. 

1  A  few  years  ago  a  copy  sold  by  auction,  in  London,  for  41  guineas, 


POEMS. 


SALTZBURG. 

ON  Salza's  quiet  tide  the  westering  sun 

Gleams  mildly  ;  and  the  lengthening  shadows  dun, 

Chequered  with  ruddy  streaks  from  spire  and  roof, 

Begin  to  weave  fair  twilight's  mystic  woof, 

Till  the  dim  tissue,  like  a  gorgeous  veil, 

Wraps  the  proud  city,  in  her  beauty  pale. 

A  minute  since,  and  in  the  rosy  light 

Dome,  casement,  spire,  were  glowing  warm  and  bright ; 

A  minute  since,  St.  Rupert's  stately  shrine, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  many  a  Hartzwald  mine,  * 

Flung  back  the  golden  glow ;  now,  broad  and  vast, 

The  shadows  from  yon  ancient  fortress  cast, 

Like  the  dark  grasp  of  some  barbaric  power, 

Their  leaden  empire  stretch  o'er  roof  and  tower. 

Sweet  is  the  twilight  hour  by  Salza's  strand, 
Though  no  Arcadian  visions  grace  the  land : 
Wakes  not  a  sound  that  floats  not  sweetly  by, 
While  day's  last  beams  upon  the  landscape  die  ; 
Low  chants  the  fisher  where  the  waters  pour, 
And  murmuring  voices  melt  along  the  shore  ; 
The  plash  of  waves  comes  softly  from  the  side 
Of  passing  barge  slow  gliding  o'er  the  tide  ; 
And  there  are  sounds  from  city,  field,  and  hill, 
Shore,  forest,  flood  ;  yet  mellow  all  and  stilL 

1  The  dome  of  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Hubert  is  covered  with  copper  j 
and  there  are  many  altars  and  shrines  in  the  interior  constructed  of  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  marble,  brought  from  quarries  in  the  vicinity.  St.  Hu* 
laert,  to  whom  the  Cathedral  is  dedicated,  was  by  birth  a  Scotchman. 


184  FRAGMENTS. 

But  change  we  now  the  scene,  ere  night  descend, 
And  through  St.  Rupert's  massive  portal  wend. 
Full  many  a  shrine,  bedeckt  with  sculpture  quaint 
Of  steel-clad  knight  and  legendary  saint ; 
Pull  many  an  altar,  where  the  incense-cloud 
Hose  with  the  pealing  anthem,  deep  and  loud  ; 
And  pavements  worn  before  each  marble  fane 
By  knees  devout — (ah  !  bent  not  all  in  vain  !) 
There  greet  the  gaze  ;  with  statues,  richly  wrought, 
And  noble  paintings,  from  Ausonia  brought, — 
Planned  by  those  master  minds  whose  memory  stands 
The  grace,  the  glory,  of  their  native  lands. 
As  the  hard  granite,  'midst  some  softer  stone, 
Starts  from  the  mass,  unbuttressed  and  alone, 
And  proudly  rears  its  iron  strength  for  aye, 
"While  crumbling  crags  around  it  melt  away ; 
So  midst  the  ruins  of  long  eras  gone, 
Creative  Genius  holds  his  silent  throne, — 
"While  lesser  lights  grow  dim, — august,  sublime, 
Gigantic  looming  o'er  the  gulfs  of  Time  ! 


FRAGMENTS. 

FROM   A   METRICAL   JOURNAL. 

Andernacht. 

TWILIGHT'S  mists  are  gathering  gray 
Bound  us  on  our  winding  way  ; 
Tet  the  mountain's  purple  crest 
Reflects  the  glories  of  the  west. 
Rushing  on  with  giant  force  force, 
Rolls  the  Rhine  his  glorious  course  ; 
Flashing,  now,  with  flamy  red, 
O'er  his  jagg'd  basaltic  bed  ; 
Now,  with  current  calm  and  wide, 
Sweeping  round  the  mountain's  side  ; 
Ever  noble,  proud,  and  free, 


FRAGMENTS.  185 

Flowing  in  his  majesty. 

Soon  upon  the  evening  skies 

Andernacht's  grim  ruins  rise  ; 

Buttress,  battlement  and  tower, 

Remnants  hoar  of  Roman  power. 

Monuments  of  Caesar's  sway, 

Piecemeal  mouldering  away. 

Lo,  together  loosely  thrown, 

Sculptured  head  and  lettered  stone ; 

Guardless  now  the  arch-way  steep 

To  rampart  huge  and  frowning  keep ; 

The  empty  moat  is  gay  with  flowers, 

The  night- wind  whistles  through  the  towers^ 

And,  flapping  in  the  silent  air, 

The  owl  and  bat  are  tenants  there. 

St.  Goar. 

Past  a  rock  with  frowning  front, 

Wrinkled  by  the  tempest's  brunt, 

By  the  Rhine  we  downward  bore 

Upon  the  village  of  St  Goar. 

Bosomed  deep  among  the  hills, 

Here  old  Rhine  his  current  stills. 

Loitering  the  banks  between, 

As  if,  enamoured  of  the  scene, 

He  had  forgot  his  onward  way 

For  a  live-long  summer  day. 

Grim  the  crags  through  whose  dark  cleft, 

Behind,  he  hath  a  passage  reft ; 

"While,  gaunt  as  gorge  of  hunted  boar, 

Dark  yawns  the  foaming  pass  before, 

"Where  the  tormented  waters  rage, 

lake  demons  in  their  Stygian  cage, 

In  giddy  eddies  whirling  round 

"With  a  sullen  choking  sound  ; 

Or  flinging  far  the  scattering  spray, 

O'er  the  peaked  rocks  that  bar  his  way. 


186  THE  MONTHS. 

— No  marvel  that  the  spell-bound  Khine, 
Like  giant  overcome  with  wine, 
Should  here  relax  his  angry  frown, 
And,  soothed  to  slumber,  lay  him  down 
Amid  the  vine-clad  banks  that  lave, 
Their  tresses  in  his  placid  wave. 


THE  MONTHS. 

i. 

FEOM  your  high  dwellings  in  the  realms  of  snow 

And  cloud,  where  many  an  avalanche's  fall 
Is  heard  resounding  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

Come,  ye  cold  winds,  at  January's  call, 
On  whistling  wings,  and  with  white  flakes  bestrew 

The  earth,  till  February's  reign  restore 
The  race  of  torrents  to  their  wonted  flow, 

Whose  waves  shall  stand  in  silent  ice  no  more  ; 
But,  lashed  by  March's  maddened  winds,  shall  roar 
With  voice  of  ire,  and  beat  the  rocks  on  every  shore. 

n. 
Bow  down  your  heads,  ye  flowers  in  gentle  guise, 

Before  the  dewy  rain  that  April  sheds, 
Whose  sun  shines  through  her  clouds  with  quick  surprise, 

Shedding  soft  influences  on  your  heads  ; 
And  wreathe  ye  round  the  rosy  month  that  flies 

To  scatter  perfumes  in  the  path  of  June  ; 
Till  July's  sun  upon  the  mountains  rise 

Triumphant,  and  the  wan  and  weary  moon 
Mingle  her  cold  beams  with  the  burning  lume 
That  Sirius  shoots  through  all  the  dreary  midnight  gloom. 

in. 
Kejoice !  ye  fields,  rejoice  !  and  wave  with  gold, 

When  August  round  her  precious  gifts  is  flinging ; 
Lo  !  the  crushed  wain  is  slowly  homeward  rolled  : 

The  sunburnt  reapers  jocund  lays  are  singing ; 


BONO.  1ST 

September's  steps  her  juicy  stores  unfold, 

If  the  Spring  blossoms  have  not  blushed  in  vain : 

October's  foliage  yellows  with  his  cold  : 
In  rattling  showers  dark  November's  rain, 

From  every  stormy  cloud,  descends  amain, 

Till  keen  December's  snows  close  up  the  year  again. 


THE  LAST  SMILE. 

SHE  sat  beside  me  yesternight, 

"With  lip,  and  eye,  so  blandly  smiling 
So  full  of  soul,  of  life,  of  light, 

So  sweetly  my  lorn  heart  beguiling, 
That  she  had  almost  made  me  gay — 
Had  almost  charmed  the  thought  away — 
(Which,  like  the  poisoned  desert  wind, 
Came  sick  and  heavy  o'er  my  mind) — 
That  memory  soon  mine  all  would  be, 
And  she  would  smile  no  more  for  me. 


SONG. 

[From  Leoni,  a  Romance  of  Italy.] 
FULL,  broad,  and  bright,  is  the  silver  light 

Of  moon  and  stars  on  flood  and  fell ; 
But  in  my  breast  is  starless  night, 

For  I  am  come  to  say  farewell. 
How  glad,  how  swift,  was  wont  to  be 
The  step  that  bore  me  back  to  thee  ; 
Now  coldly  comes  upon  my  heart 
The  meeting  that  is  but  to  part. 

I  do  not  ask  a  tear,  but  while 
I  linger  where  I  must  not  stay, 

Oh,  give  me  but  a  parting  smile, 
To  light  me  on  my  lonely  way. 


188  SPUING. 

To  shine  a  brilliant  beacon  star, 

To  my  reverted  glance,  afar, 

Through  midnight,  which  can  hare  no  morrow, 

O'er  the  deep,  silent,  surge  of  sorrow. 


SPKING. 

INFANT  Spirit  of  the  Spring  ! 

On  thy  fresh-plumed  pinion,  bring 

Snow -drops  like  thy  stainless  brow — 

Violet,  primrose — cull  them  now, 

With  the  cup  of  daffodil, 

Which  the  fairies  love  to  fill, 

Ere  each  moon-dance  they  renew, 

With  the  fragrant  honey  dew  ; 

Bring  them,  Spirit ! — bring  them  hither 

Ere  the  wind  have  time  to  wither  ; 

Or  the  sun  to  steal  their  dyes, 

To  paint,  at  eve,  the  western  skies. 

Bring  them  for  the  wreath  of  one — 

Fairest,  best,  that  Time  hath  known. 

Infant  Spirit !  dreams  have  told 

Of  thy  golden  hours  of  old, 

When  the  amaranth  was  flung 

O'er  creation  bright  and  young  ; 

When  the  wind  had  sweeter  sound 

Than  holiest  lute-string  since  hath  found  ; 

When  the  sigh  of  angels  sent 
Fragrance  through  the  firmament : 
Then  thy  glorious  gifts  were  shed 
O'er  full  many  a  virgin  head  : 
Of  those  forms  of  beauty,  none 
Gladden  now  this  earth,  save  one  ! 
Hither,  then,  thy  blossoms  bring, 
Infant  Spirit  of  the  Spring  ! 


THE  SCYTHIAN  GRAVE.  189 


THE  SCYTHIAN  GRAVE. 

THE  following  stanzas  refer  to  some  peculiar  and  affecting  customs  of 
the  Scythians,  as  avouched  by  Herodotus  (Melpomene  71),  relative  to 
the  burial  of  their  kings,1  round  whose  tombs  they  were  wont  to  set  up 
a  troop  of  fifty  skeleton  scarecrows — armed  corpses — in  a  manner  very 
horrible,  barbarous  and  indecorous  ;  besides  sending  out  of  the  world 
to  keep  the  king  company,  numerous  cup-bearers,  grooms,  lackeys, 
coachmen,  and  cooks ;  all  which  singular,  and,  to  the  individuals  con- 
cerned, somewhat  objectionable  proceedings  appear  to  have  been  the 
result  of  a  feeling,  pervading  the  whole  nation,  of  the  poetical  and  pic- 
turesque. 

I. 

THEY  laid  the  lord 

Of  all  the  land 
Within  his  grave  of  pride ; 

They  set  the  sword 

Beside  the  hand 

That  could  not  grasp  nor  guide  ; 
They  left  to  soothe  and  share  his  rest 

Beneath  the  moveless  mould, 
A  lady,  bright  as  those  that  live, 

But  oh  !  how  calm  and  cold ! 
They  left  to  keep  due  watch  and  ward, 
Thick  vassals  round  their  slumbering  lord — 
Ranged  in  menial  order  all — 
They  may  hear,  when  he  can  call. 

n. 

They  built  a  mound  > 

Above  the  breast 
Whose  haughty  heart  was  still ; 

Each  stormy  sound 

That  wakes  the  west, 
Howls  o'er  that  lonely  hilL 

1  These  are  the  kings  to  whom  the  prophecies  in  the  Old  Testament 
refer :  — ' '  They  shall  go  down  to  the  grave  with  their  weapons  of  war, 
though  they  were  a  terror  to  the  mighty  in  the  land  of  the  living." 


190  TEE  SCYTHIAN   GRAYS. 

Underneath  an  armed  troop 

In  stalwart  order  stay  ; 
Flank  to  flank  they  stand,  nor  stoop 

Their  lances,  day  by  day, 
Round  the  dim  sepulchral  cliff 
Horsemen  fifty,  fixed  and  stiff — 
Each  with  his  bow,  and  each  with  his  brand, 
"With  his  bridle  grasped  in  his  steadfast  hand. 

m. 

The  soul  of  sleep 

May  dim  the  brow, 

And  check  the  soldier's  tread, 

But  who  can  keep 

A  guard  so  true, 
As  do  the  dark-eyed  dead  ? 
The  foul  hyena's  howl  and  haunt 

About  their  charnel  lair ; 
The  flickering  rags  of  flesh  they  flaunt 

Within  the  plague-struck  air. 
But  still  the  skulls  do  gaze  and  grin, 
Though  the  worms  have  gnawed  the  nerves  within, 
And  the  jointed  toes,  and  the  fleshless  heel 
Clatter  and  clank  in  their  stirrup  of  steel 

IV. 

The  snows  are  swift, 

That  glide  so  pale 
Along  the  mountain  dim ; 

Beneath  their  drift 

Shall  rust  the  mail, 
And  blanch  the  nerveless  limb  : 
"While  shower  on  shower,  and  wreath  on  wreath, 

From  vapours  thunder-scarred,1 
Surround  the  misty  mound  of  death 

And  whelm  its  ghastly  guard  ; 

1  It  is  one  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  climate,  according  to  Herodotus, 
that  it  thunders  in  th.Q  winter,  not  in  the  summer. 


REMEMBRANCE.  191 

Till  those  who  held  the  earth  in  fear, 
Lie  meek,  and  mild,  and  powerless  here, 
Without  a  single  sworded  slave 
To  keep  their  name,  or  guard  their  grave. 


KEMEMBRANCE. 

I  OUGHT  to  be  joyful,  the  jest  and  the  song 

And  the  light  tones  of  music  resound  through  the  throng ; 

But  its  cadence  falls  dully  and  dead  on  my  ear, 

And  the  laughter  I  mimic  is  quenched  in  a  tear. 

For  here  are  no  longer,  to  bid  me  rejoice, 
The  light  of  thy  smile,  or  the  tone  of  thy  voice, 
And,  gay  though  the  crowd  that's  around  me  may  be, 
I  am  alone,  when  I'm  parted  from  thee. 

Alone,  said  I,  dearest  ?  O,  never  we  part, — 

For  ever,  for  ever,  thou'rt  here  in  my  heart : 

Sleeping  or  waking,  where'er  I  may  be, 

I  have  but  one  thought,  and  that  thought  is  of  thee. 

"When  the  planets  roll  red  through  the  darkness  of  night, 
When  the  morning  bedews  all  the  landscape  with  light, 
When  the  high  sun  of  noon-day  is  warm  on  the  hill, 
And  the  breezes  are  quiet,  the  green  leafage  still ; 

I  love  to  look  out  o'er  the  earth  and  the  sky, 
For  nature  is  kind,  and  seems  lonely  as  I ; 
Whatever  in  nature  most  lovely  I  see, 
Has  a  voice  that  recalls  the  remembrance  of  thee. 

Remember — remember.     Those  only  can  know 
How  dear  is  remembrance,  whose  hope  is  laid  low  ; 
'Tis  like  clouds  in  the  west,  that  are  gorgeous  still, 
When  the  dank  dews  of  evening  fall  deadly  and  chill, 


192  CHRIST  CHURCH,  OXFORD. 

Like  the  bow  in  the  cloud  that  is  painted  so  bright, — 
Like  the  voice  of  the  nightingale,  heard  through  the  night, 
Oh,  sweet  is  remembrance,  most  sad  though  it  be, 
For  remembrance  is  all  that  remaineth  for  me. 


CHRIST    CHUKCH,   OXFORD. 

NIGHT. 

FAINT  from  the  bell  the  ghastly  echoes  fall, 

That  grates  within  the  gray  cathedral  tower  j 
Let  me  not  enter  through  the  portal  tall, 

Lest  the  strange  spirit  of  the  moonless  "hour 
Should  give  a  life  to  those  pale  people,  who 
Lie  in  their  fretted  niches,  two  and  two, 
Each  with  his  head  on  pillowy  stone  reposed, 
And  his  hands  lifted,  and  his  eyelids  closed. 

From  many  a  mouldering  oriel,  as  to  flout, 
Its  pale,  grave  brow  of  ivy-tressed  stone, 

Comes  the  incongruous  laugh,  and  revel  shout — 
Above,  some  solitary  casement,  thrown 

Wide  open  to  the  wavering  night  wind, 

Admits  its  chill,  so  deathful,  yet  so  kind, 

Unto  the  fevered  brow  and  fiery  eye 

Of  one,  whose  night  hour  passeth  sleeplessly. 

Ye  melancholy  chambers !     I  could  shun 

The  darkness  of  your  silence,  with  such  fear, 
As  places  where  slow  murder  had  been  done. 

How  many  noble  spirits  have  died  here, 
Withering  away  in  yearnings  to  aspire, 
Gnawed  by  mocked  hope — devoured  by  their  own  fire  I 
Methinks  the  grave  must  feel  a  colder  bed 
To  spirits  such  as  these,  than  unto  common  dead. 


AR18TODEMU8  AT  PLAT^JA.  193 


AEISTODEMUS   AT    PLAT^JA. 

[Op  two  Spartans  who  were  prevented  by  illness  from  taking  part  in 
the  battle  of  Thermopylae,  and  who  were,  in  consequence,  degraded  to 
the  level  of  helots,  one,  unable  to  endure  the  scorn  of  his  countrymen, 
killed  himself ;  the  other,  by  name  Aristodemus,  waited,  and  when,  at 
the  battle  of  Plataea,  thirty -three  thousand  allied  Greeks  stood  to  receive 
the  final  and  desperate  attack  of  three  hundred  thousand  chosen 
Asiatics,  and  the  Spartans,  unused  to  Persian  arms,  hung  slightly  back, 
he  charged  alone,  and,  calling  to  his  countrymen  to  ' '  follow  the 
coward,"  broke  the  enemy's  mass,  and  was  found,  when  the  victorious 
Greeks  who  followed  him  had  laid  two  hundred  thousand  of  their  ene- 
my dead  on  the  field,  lying  on  a  low  hillock,  with  his  face  turned  up  to 
heaven,  a  group  of  the  Persian  nobles  lying  slaughtered  around  him. 
He  was  refused  the  honors  of  burial,  because,  it  was  said,  he  was  only 
courageous  in  despair.] 

YE  have  darkened  mine  honor  and  branded  my  name, 
Ye  have  quenched  its  remembrance  in  silence  and  shame, 
Yet  the  heart  ye  call  craven,  unbroken,  hath  borne 
The  voice  of  your  anger,  the  glance  of  your  scorn. 

But  the  life  that  hath  lingered  is  now  in  mine  hand,1 
My  waiting  was  but  for  a  lot  of  the  land, 
"Which  his  measure,  who  ruleth  the  battle  array, 
May  mete  for  your  best  and  your  bravest  to-day. 

My  kinsmen,  by  brothers,  your  phalanx  is  fair, 
There's  a  shield,  as  I  think,  that  should  surely  be  there  ; 
Ye  have  darkened  its  disk,  and  its  hour  hath  drawn  near 
To  be  reared  as  a  trophy  or  borne  as  a  bier.* 
"What  said  I  ?     Alas,  though  the  foe  in  his  flight, 
Should  quit  me  unspoiled  on  the  field  of  the  fight, 
Ye  would  leave  me  to  He,  with  no  hand  to  inurn, 
For  the  dog  to  devour,  or  the  stranger  to  spurn  ! 

1  1  Sam.  xxviii.  21,  Job  xiii.  14. 

2  [If  his  body  were  obtained  by  the  enemy  it  would  be  reared  as  a 
trophy.     If  recovered  by  his  friends,  borne  as  a  bier,  unless,  as  he  im- 
mediately  called  to  mind,  they  should  deny  him  funeral  honors.] 

2 


194:  SALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA. 

"What  matter?    Attendants  my  slumber  shall  grace, 
With  blood  on  the  breast,  and  with  fear  on  the  face  ; 
And  Sparta  may  own  that  the  death  hath  atoned 
For  the  crime  of  the  cursed,  whose  life  she  disowned. 

By  the  banks  of  Eurotas  her  maidens  shall  meet, 
And  her  mountains  rejoice  in  the  fall  of  your  feet ; 
And  the  cry  of  your  conquest  be  lofty  and  loud, 
O'er  the  lengthened  array  of  the  shield  or  the  shroud. 

And  the  fires  of  the  grave  shall  empurple  the  air, 
When  they  lick  the  white  dust  of  the  bones  ye  shall  bear ; 
The  priest  and  the  people,  at  altar  and  shrine, 
Shall  worship  their  manes,  disdainful  of  mine. 

Yet  say  that  they  fought  for  the  hopes  of  their  breast, 
For  the  hearts  that  had  loved  them,  the  lips  that  had  blessed  •, 
For  the  roofs  that  had  covered,  the  country  that  claimed, 
The  sires  that  had  named  them,  the  sons  they  had  named. 

And  say  that  I  fought  for  the  land  of  the  free, 

Though  its  bosom  of  blessing  beat  coldly  for  me  ; 

For  the  lips  that  had  cursed  me,  the  hearts  that  had  scorned, 

And  the  desolate  hope  of  the  death  unadorned. 


SALSETTE    AND    ELEPHANTA. 
A  PRIZE  POEM. 

"  Religio. . .  .pedibus  subjecta  vicissim 
Obteritur.     Nos  exsequat  victoria  ccelo." 

— LUCRETIUS. 

Tis  eve — and  o'er  the  face  of  parting  day 
Quick  smiles  of  summer  lightning  flit  and  play  ; 
In  pulses  of  broad  light,  less  seen  than  felt, 
They  mix  in  heaven,  and  on  the  mountains  melt ; 
Their  silent  transport  fills  the  exulting  air — 
"Tis  eve,  and  where  is  evening  half  so  fair  ? 


SALSETTE  AND  ELEPSANTA.  195 

Oil !  deeply,  softly  sobs  the  Indian  sea 

O'er  thy  dark  sands,  majestic  Dharavee,1 

When,  from  each  purple  hill  and  polished  lake, 

The  answering  voices  of  the  night  awake 

The  fitful  note  of  many  a  brilliant  bird, — 

The  lizard's  plunge,  o'er  distant  waters  heard, — 

The  thrill  of  forest  leaves — how  soft,  how  swift 

That  floats  and  follows  where  the  night-winds  drift ; 

Or,  piercing  through  the  calmness  of  the  sky, 

The  jungle  tiger's  sharp  and  sudden  cry. 

Yet  all  is  peace,  for  these  weak  voices  tell 

How  deep  the  calm  they  break  but  not  dispel. 

The  twilight  heaven  rolls  on,  like  some  deep  stream 

When  breezes  break  not  on  its  moving  dream  ; 

Its  trembling  stars  continual  watches  keep 

And  pause  above  Canarah's  haunted  steep  ; a 

Each  in  its  path  of  first  ascension  hid 

Behind  the  height  of  that  pale  pyramid, — 

(The  strength  of  nations  hewed  the  basalt  spire,3 

And  barbed  its  rocks  like  sacrificial  fire.) 

Know  they  the  hour's  approach,  whose  fateful  flight 

Was  watched  of  yore  from  yonder  cloudless  height  ? 

Lone  on  its  utmost  peak,  the  Prophet  Priest 

Beheld  the  night  unfolded  from  the  East ; 

In  prescient  awe  perused  its  blazing  scroll, 

And  read  the  records  stretched  from  Pole  to  Pole  ; 

And  though  their  eyes  are  dark,  their  lips  are  still, 

Who  watched  and  worshipped  on  Canarah's  hill, 

Wild  superstition's  visionary  power 

Still  rules  and  fills  the  spirit  of  the  hour : 

The  Indian  maiden,  through  the  scented  grove, 

Seeks  the  dim  shore,  and  lights  the  lamp  of  love  ; 


1  The  southern  promontory  of  the  island  of  Salsette. 

9  The  central  peak  of  Salsette. 

1  M.  Anguetil  du  Perron,  in  his  accounts  of  Canarah,  says  that  itf 
peak  appears  to  have  been  hewn  to  a  point  by  human  art  as  an  emblem 
?f  the  solar  raj. 


196  8AL8ETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA. 

The  pious  peasant,  awe-struck  and  alone, 

"With  radiant  garland  crowns  the  purple  stone,1 

And  shrinks,  returning  through  the  star-lit  glade, 

When  breezes  stir  the  peepul's  sacred  shade  ;  * 

For  well  his  spirit  knows  the  deep  appeal 

That  love  must  mourn  to  miss,  yet  fear  to  feel ; 

Low  sounds,  faint  rays,  upon  the  senses  shed — 

The  voices  of  the  lost,  the  dark  eyes  of  the  dead, 

How  awful  now,  when  night  and  silence  brood 

O'er  Earth's  repose  and  Ocean's  solitude, 

To  trace  the  dim  and  devious  paths  that  guide 

Along  Canarah's  steep  and  craggy  side, 

"Where,  girt  with  gloom — inhabited  by  fear, — 

The  mountain  homes  of  India's  gods  appear  ! 

Range  above  range  they  rise,  each  hollow  cave 

Darkling  as  death,  and  voiceless  as  the  grave  ; 

Save  that  the  waving  weeds  in  each  recess 

With  rustling  music  mock  its  loneliness  ; 

And  beasts  of  blood  disturb,  with  stealthy  tread, 

The  chambers  of  the  breathless  and  the  dead. 

All  else  of  life,  of  worship,  past  away, 

The  ghastly  idols  fall  not,  nor  decay  ; 

Retain  the  lip  of  scorn,  the  rugged  frown  ; 

And  grasp  the  blunted  sword  and  useless  crown  ; 

Their  altars  desecrate,  their  names  untold, 

The  hands  that  formed,  the  hearts  that  feared — how  cold  I 

Thou  too — dark  Isle  !  whose  shadow  on  the  sea 

Lies  like  the  gloom  that  mocks  our  memory 

When  one  bright  instant  of  our  former  lot 

Were  grief,  remembered,  but  were  guilt,  forgot. 

Rock  of  the  lonely  crest !  how  oft  renewed 

Have  beamed  the  summers  of  thy  solitude, 

1  "  A  stone  painted  with  red,  and  placed  at  the  foot  of  their  favorite 
tree,  is  sufficient  to  call  forth  the  devotion  of  the  poor,  who  bring  to  it 
flowers  and  simple  offerings." — J.  S.  BUCKINGHAM. 

2  The  superstitious  feeling  of  the  Indian  with  respect  to  the  peepul- 
tree  is  well  known.     Its  shade  is  supposed  to  be  loved  and  haunted  by 
the  dead. 


8ALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA.  197 

Since  first  the  myriad  steps  that  shook  thy  shore 
Grew  frail  and  few — then  paused  for  evermore ! 
•  Answer — ye  long-lulled  echoes  !     Where  are  they 
Who  clove  your  mountains  with  the  shafts  of  day; 
Bade  the  swift  life  along  their  marble  fly, 
And  struck  their  darkness  into  deity, 
Nor  claimed  from  thee — pale  temple  of  the  wave- 
Record  or  rest,  a  glory  or  a  grave  ? 
Now  all  are  cold — the  votary  as  his  god, — 
And  by  the  shrine  he  feared,  the  courts  he  trod, 
The  livid  snake  extends  his  glancing  trail, 
And  lifeless  murmurs  mingle  on  the  gale. 

Yet  glorious  still,  though  void,  though  desolate, 
Proud  Dharapori ! '  gleams  thy  mountain  gate, 
What  time,  emergent  from  the  eastern  wave, 
The  keen  moon's  crescent  lights  thy  sacred  cave  ; 
And  moving  beams  confuse,  with  shadowy  change, 
Thy  columns'  massive  might  and  endless  range. 
Far,  far  beneath,  where  sable  waters  sleep, 
Those  radiant  pillars  pierce  the  crystal  deep, 
And  mocking  waves  reflect,  with  quivering  smile, 
Their  long  recession  of  refulgent  aisle  ; 2 
As,  where  Atlantis  hath  her  lonely  home, 
Her  grave  of  guilt,  beneath  the  ocean's  foam ; 
Above  the  lifeless  hearth  and  guardless  gate, 
The  wildly- walking  surges  penetrate, 
And  sapphire  tints  of  phosphor  lightning  fall 
O'er  the  broad  pillar,  and  the  sculptured  wall — 
So,  Dharapori !  through  thy  cold  repose 
The  flooding  lustre  of  the  moonlight  flows  ; 
New  forms  of  fear,3  by  every  touch  displayed, 

1  The  Indian  name  for  Elephanta. 

5  The  interior  of  Elephanta  is  usually  damp,  and  its  floor  covered  with 
water  two  or  three  feet  deep.  By  moonlight  its  shallowness  would  be 
unperceived. 

3  The  sculptures  of  Elephanta  have  such  ' '  horrible  and  fearful  formes 
that  they  make  a  man's  hayre  stande  upright." — LINSCHOTEN. 


198  8ALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA. 

Gleam,  pale  and  passioned,  through  the  dreadful  shade, 

In  wreathed  groups  of  dim,  distorted  life, 

In  ghastly  calmness,  or  tremendous  strife  ; 

While  glaring  eye  and  grasping  hand  attest 

The  mocked  emotion  of  the  marble  breast. 

Thus  in  the  fevered  dream  of  restless  pain, 

Incumbent  horror  broods  upon  the  brain, 

Through  mists  of  blon^d  colossal  shapes  arise, 

Stretch  their  stiff  limbs,  and  roll  their  rayless  eyes. 

Yet  knew  not  here  the  chisel's  touch  to  trace 

The  finer  lineaments  of  form  and  face  ; 

No  studious  art  of  delicate  design 

Conceived  the  shape,  or  lingered  on  the  line. 

The  sculptor  learned,  on  Indus'  plains  afar, 

The  various  pomp  of  worship  and  of  war ; 

Impetuous  ardor  in  his  bosom  woke, 

And  smote  the  animation  from  the  rock. 

In  close  battalions  kingly  forms  advance,1 

Wave  the  broad  shield,  and  shake  the  soundless  lance  ; 

With  dreadful  crests  adorned,  and  orient  gem, 

Lightens  the  helm  and  gleams  the  diadem  ; 

Loose  o'er  their  shoulders  falls  their  flowing  hair 

With  wanton  wave,  and  mocks  the  unmoving  air  ; 

Broad  o'er  their  breasts  extend  the  guardian  zones 

Broidered  with  flowers,  and  bright  with  mystic  stones  ; 

Poised  in  sethereal  march  they  seem  to  swim, 

Majestic  motion  marked  in  every  limb  ; 

In  changeful  guise  they  pass — a  lordly  train, 

Mighty  in  passion,  unsubdued  in  pain  ; 2 

Eevered  as  monarchs,  or  as  gods  adored, 

Alternately  they  rear  the  sceptre  and  the  sword. 

1  "Some  of  these  figures  have  helmets  of  pyramidal  form;  others 
wear  crowns  richly  decorated  with  jewels  ;   others  display  large  bushy 
ringlets  of  curled  or  flowing  hair.     In  their  hands  they  grasp  sceptres 
and  shields,  the  symbols  of  justice  and  the  ensigns  of  religion,  the  weap- 
ons of  war  and  the  trophies  of  peace." — MAUKICE,  Antiq.  of  India, 
vol.  ii.,  p.  145. 

2  Many  of  them  have  countenances  expressive  of  mental  suffering. 


Such  were  their  forms  and  such  their  martial  mien, 
Who  met  by  Indus'  shores  the  Assyrian  queen,1 
When,  with  reverted  force,  the  Indian  dyed 
His  javelin  in  the  pulses  of  her  pride, 
And  cast  in  death-heaps,  by  the  purple  flood, 
Her  strength  of  Babylonian  multitude. 

And  mightier  ones  are  there — apart — divine, 

Presiding  genii  of  the  mountain  shrine  : 

Behold,  the  giant  group,  the  united  three, 

Faint  symbol  of  an  unknown  Deity  ! 

Here,  frozen  into  everlasting  trance, 

Stern  Siva's  quivering  lip  and  hooded  glance  ; 

There,  in  eternal  majesty  serene, 

Proud  Brahma's  painless  brow  and  constant  mien  ; 

There  glows  the  light  of  Veeshnu's  guardian  smile, 

But  on  the  crags  that  shade  yon  inmost  aisle 

Shine  not,  ye  stars  !     Annihilation's  lord  * 

There  waves,  with  many  an  arm,  the  uusated  sword. 

Relentless  holds  the  cup  of  mortal  pain, 

And  shakes  the  spectral  links  that  wreathe  his  ghastly  chain. 

Oh,  could  these  lifeless  lips  be  taught  to  tell 

(Touched  by  Chaldean  art,  or  Arab  spell) 

What  votaries  here  have  knelt,  what  victims  died, 

In  pangs,  their  gladness,  or  in  crimes,  their  pride, 

How  should  we  shun  the  awful  solitude, 

And  deem  the  intruding  footsteps  dashed  in  blood  ! 

How  might  the  altar-hearths  grow  warm  and  red, 

And  the  air  shadowy  with  avenging  dead  ! 

Behold  ! — he  stirs — that  cold,  colossal  king  ! — 

'Tis  but  the  uncertain  shade  the  moonbeams  fling  ; 

Hark  !  a  stern  voice  awakes  with  sudden  thrill ! — 

1  Semiramis.     M.  D'Ancarville  supposes  the  cave  to  have  been  exca- 
vated by  her  army  ;  and  insists  on  the  similarity  between  the  costume 
of  the   sculptured   figures   and  that  of  her   Indian   adversaries.     See 
D'Ancarmtte,  vol.  i.,  p.  121. 

2  Alluding  to  a  sculpture  representing  the  evil  principle  of  India  ; 
he  seems  engaged  in  human  sacrifice,  and  wears  a  necklace  of  skulls. 


200  SALSETTE  AND  KLEPITANTA. 

Twas  but  the  wandering  wind's  precarious  will : 
The  distant  echo  dies,  and  all  the  cave  is  stilL 

Yet  Fancy,  floating  on  the  uncertain  light, 

Fills  with  her  crowded  dreams  the  course  of  night ; 

At  her  wild  will  sethereal  forms  appear, 

And  sounds,  long  silent,  strike  the  startled  ear  : 

Behold  the  dread  Mithratic  rite  reclaim  ' 

Its  pride  of  ministers,  its  pomp  of  flame ! 

Along  the  winding  walls,  in  ordered  row, 

Flash  myriad  fires — the  fretted  columns  glow ; 

Beaming  above  the  imitative  sky 

Extends  the  azure  of  its  canopy, 

Fairest  where  imaged  star  and  airy  sprite 

Move  in  swift  beauty  and  entrancing  light ; 

A  golden  sun  reflected  lustre  flings, 

And  wandering  Dewtahs  2  wave  their  crimson  wings  ; 

Beneath,  fed  richly  from  the  Arabian  urn, 

Undying  lamps  before  the  altar  burn  ; 

And  sleepless  eyes  the  sacred  sign  behold, 

The  spiral  orb  of  radiated  gold  ; 

On  this  the  crowds  of  deep  voiced  priests  attend, 

To  this  they  loudly  cry,  they  lowly  bend  ; 

O'er  their  wan  brows  the  keen  emotions  rise, 

And  pious  phrenzy  flashes  from  their  eyes  ; 

Phrenzy  in  mercy  sent,  in  torture  tried, 

Through  paths  of  death  their  only  guard  and  guide, 

When,  in  dread  answer  to  their  youth's  appeal, 

Rose  the  red  fire  and  waved  the  restless  steel,3 

J  Throughout  the  description  of  the  rites  of  Mithra,  I  have  followed 
Maurice,  whose  indefatigable  research  seems  almost  to  have  demon- 
strated the  extreme  antiquity,  at  least,  of  the  Elephanta  cavern,  as  well 
as  its  application  to  the  worship  of  the  solar  orb,  and  ef  fire.  For  a 
detailed  account  of  this  worship,  see  MAURICE,  Indian  Antiq.,  vol.  ii., 
Bee.  7. 

2  Inferior  spirits  of  various  power  and  disposition,  holding  in  the 
Hindoo  mythology  the  place  of  angels.  They  appear  in  multitudes  on 
the  roof  of  the  Elephanta  cavern. 

•Alluding  to  the  dreadful  ceremonies  of  initiation  which  the  priest* 


8ALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANT  A.  201 

And  rushed  the  wintry  billow's  wildest  wreck, — 

Their  God  hath  called  them,  and  shall  danger  check? 

On — on — for  ever  on,  though  roused  in  wrath 

Glare  the  grim  lion  on  their  lonely  path  ; 

Though,  starting  from  his  coiled  malignant  rest, 

The  deadly  dragon  lift  his  crimson  crest ; 

Though  corpse-like  shadows  round  their  footsteps  flock, 

And  shafts  of  lightning  cleave  the  incumbent  rock ; 

On,  for  behold,  enduring  honors  wait 

To  grace  their  passage  through  the  golden  gate  ; ' 

Glorious  estate,  and  more  than  mortal  power, 

Succeed  the  dreadful  expiating  hour  ; 

Impurpled  robes  their  weary  limbs  enfold 

"With  stars  enwoven,  and  stiff  with  heavenly  gold  ; 

The  mitra 2  veils  their  foreheads,  rainbow-dyed, 

The  measured  steps  imperial  sceptres  guide  ; 

Glorious  they  move,  and  pour  upon  the  air 

The  cloud  of  incense  and  the  voice  of  prayer  ; 

While  through  the  hollow  vault,  around  them  rise 

Deep  echoes  from  the  couch  of  sacrifice, 

In  passioned  gusts  of  sound, — now  loud,  now  low, 

With  billowy  pause,  the  mystic  murmurs  flow 

Far  dwindling  on  the  breeze.     Ere  yet  they  die 

Canarah  hears,  and  all  his  peaks  reply  ; 

His  crested  chasms  the  vocal  winds  explore, 

Waste  on  the  deep,  and  wander  on  the  shore. 

of  Mithra  were  compelled  to  undergo,  and  which  seem  to  have  had  a 
close  correspondence  with  the  Eleusinian  mysteries.  See  MAURICE, 
Antiq.  of  India,  vol.  v. ,  p.  620. 

1  The  sidereal  metempsychosis  was  represented  in  the  Mithratic  rites 
by  the  ascent  of  a  ladder,  on  which  there  were  seven  gates  :  the  first  of 
lead,  representing  Saturn  ;  the  second  of  tin,  Venus  ;  the  third  brass, 
Jupiter ;  the  fourth  iron,  Mercury  ;  the  fifth  mixed,  Mars  ;  the  sixth 
silver,  the  Moon  ;  the  seventh  of  gold,  the  Sun. 

*  The  attire  of  Mithra's  priests  was  splendid  :  the  robes  of  purple, 
with  the  heavenly  constellations  embroidered  on  them  in  gold.  They 
wore  girdles  representative  of  the  zodiacal  circle,  and  carried  a  golden 
sceptre  in  the  form  of  a  serpent.  Ezekiel  speaks  of  them  as  "  exceed- 
ing in  dyed  attire  upon  their  heeds  "  (xxiii.  15). 


202  SALSBTTE  AND  ELEPHANTA. 

Above,  the  starry  gloom  is  thrilled  with  fear, 

The  forests  shake,  the  circling  hamlets  hear, 

And  wake  to  worship.     Many  an  isle  around, 

Assembling  votaries  swell  the  sacred  sound, 

And,  troop  by  troop,  along  the  woodland  ways, 

In  equal  measures  pour  responsive  praise  : 

To  Mithra  first  their  kindling  songs  addressed, 

Lull  his  long  slumbers  in  the  watery  west ; 

Next  to  the  strength  of  each  celestial  sign 

They  raise  the  choral  chaunt,  the  breathing  line  ; 

Keen  through  the  arch  of  heaven  their  hymns  arise, 

Auspicious  splendors  deck  the  answering  skies. 

The  sacred  cohorts,  maddening  as  they  sing, 

Far  through  the  air  their  flashing  torches  fling ; 

From  rock  to  rock  the  rushing  glories  leap, 

Climb  the  wide  hills,  and  clothe  the  central  steep, 

Till  through  the  endless  night  a  living  line 

Of  lustre  opens  on  the  bounding  brine ; 

Ocean  rejoices,  and  his  isles  prolong, 

With  answering  zeal,  those  bursts  of  flame  and  song, 

Till  the  strong  vulture  on  Colombo's  peak 

Awakes  with  ruffled  plume  and  startled  shriek, 

And  the  roused  panther  of  Almorah's  wood 

Howls  through  his  violated  solitude. 

'Tis  past, — the  mingled  dream, — though  slow  and  grey 

On  mead  and  mountain  break  the  dawning  day  ; 

Though  stormy  wreaths  of  lingering  cloud  oppress 

Long  time  the  winds  that  breathe — the  rays  that  bless,— 

They  come,  they  come.     Night's  fitful  visions  fly 

Like  autumn  leaves,  and  fade  from  fancy's  eye  ; 

So  shall  the  God  of  might  and  mercy  dart 

His  day-beams  through  the  caverns  of  the  heart ; 

Strike  the  weak  idol  from  its  ancient  throne, 

And  vindicate  the  temple  for  His  own. 

Nor  will  He  long  delay.     A  purer  light 

Than  Mithra  cast,  shall  claim  a  holier  rite  ; 

A  mightier  voice  than  Mithra's  priests  could  pour 

Resistless  soon  shall  sound  along  the  shore ; 


SALSETTE  AND  ELEPHANTA.  203 

Its  strength  of  thunder  vanquished  fiends  shall  own, 
And  idols  tremble  through  their  limbs  of  stone. 

Vain  now  the  lofty  light — the  marble  gleam — 

Of  the  keen  shaft  that  rose  by  Gunga's  stream  ! 

When  round  its  base  the  hostile  lightnings  glowed, 

And  mortal  insult  mocked  a  god's  abode. 

What  power,  Destroyer,1  seized  with  taming  trance 

Thy  serpent  sceptre,  and  thy  withering  glance  ? 

Low  in  the  dust,  its  rocky  sculptures  rent, 

Thine  own  memorial  proves  thee  impotent. 

Thy  votaries  mourn  thy  cold  unheeding  sleep, 

Chide  where  they  praised,  and  where  they  worshipped  weep, 

Yes — he  shall  fall,  though  once  his  throne  was  set 
Where  the  high  heaven  and  crested  mountains  met ; 
Though  distant  shone  with  many  an  azure  gem 
The  glacier  glory  of  his  diadem  ; 

Though  sheets  of  sulphurous  cloud  and  wreathed  storm 
Cast  veil  of  terror  round  his  shadowy  form. 
All,  all  are  vain  !    It  comes,  the  hallowed  day, 
Whose  dawn  shall  rend  that  robe  of  fear  away  ; 
Then  shall  the  torturing  spells  that  midnight  knew 
Far  in  the  cloven  dells  of  Mount  Meru, 
Then  shall  the  moan  of  frenzied  hymns,  that  sighed 
Down  the  dark  vale  where  Gunga's  waters  glide, 
Then  shall  the  idol  chariot's  thunder  cease 
Before  the  steps  of  them  that  publish  peace. 
Already  are  they  heard, — how  fair,  how  fleet, 
Along  the  mountains  flash  their  bounding  feet ! 

1  Siva.  This  column  was  dedicated  to  him  at  Benares ;  and  a  tradi- 
tion prevailed  among  his  worshippers,  that  as  soon  as  it  should  fall,  one 
universal  religion  would  extend  over  India,  and  Bramah  be  no  more 
worshipped.  It  was  lately  thrown  down  in  a  quarrel  between  the  Hin- 
doos and  Mussulmans.  (See  Heber's  Journal.)  Siva  is  spoken  of  in  the 
following  lines,  as  representative  of  Hindoo  deities  in  general.  His 
worship  seems  to  have  arisen  in  the  fastnesses  of  the  Himalayas,  accom- 
panied by  all  the  gloomy  features  characteristic  of  the  superstitions  of 
hill  countries. 


204  A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

Disease  and  death  before  their  presence  fly  ; 
Truth  calls,  and  gladdened  India  hears  the  cry, 
Deserts  the  darkened  path  her  fathers  trod, 
And  seeks  redemption  from  the  Incarnate  God. 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

[THE  Scythians,  according  to  Herodotus,  made  use  of  part  of  their 
enemies'  bodies  after  death,  for  many  domestic  purposes  ;  particularly 
of  the  skull,  which  they  scalped,  wrapped  in  bull's  hide,  and  filled  up 
the  cracks  with  gold  ;  and  having  gilded  the  hide  and  parts  of  the  bone, 
used  the  vessel  as  a  drinking-cup,  wreathing  it  with  flowers  at  feasts.] 


I  THINK  my  soul  was  childish  yet, 

When  first  it  knew  my  manhood's  foe  ; 
But  what  I  was,  or  where  we  met, 

I  know  not — and  I  shall  not  know. 
But  I  remember,  now,  the  bed 

On  which  I  waked  from  such  sick  slumber 
As  after  pangs  of  powerless  dread, 
Is  left  upon  the  limbs  like  lead, 

Amidst  a  calm  and  quiet  number 
Of  corpses,  from  whose  cold  decay 
Mine  infant  fingers  shrank  away  ; 
My  brain  was  wild,  my  limbs  were  weak, 
And  silence  swallowed  up  my  shriek — 

Eleleu. 


n. 


Alas  !  my  kindred,  dark  and  dead 
Were  those  from  whom  I  held  aloof  ; 

I  lay  beneath  the  ruins  red 

Of  what  had  been  my  childhood's  roof  ; 

And  those  who  quenched  its  wasted  wood, 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONO.  205 

As  morning  broke  on  me,  and  mine, 
Preserved  a  babe  baptized  in  blood, 
And  human  grief  hath  been  its  food, 

And  human  life  its  wine. 
What  matter  ? — Those  who  left  me  there 
Well  nerved  mine  infant  limbs  to  bear 
What,  heaped  upon  my  haughty  head, 
I  might  endure — but  did  not  dread. 

Eleleu. 


m. 


A  stranger's  hand,  a  stranger's  love, 

Saved  my  life  and  soothed  my  woe, 
And  taught  my  youth  its  strength  to  prove, 

To  wield  the  lance,  and  bend  the  bow. 
I  slew  the  wolf  by  Tyres' '  shore, 

I  tracked  the  pard  by  chasm  and  cliff ; 
Rich  were  the  warrior  spoils  I  wore  ; 
Ye  know  me  well,  though  now  no  more 

The  lance  obeys  these  fingers  stiff; 
My  hand  was  strong,  my  hope  was  high, 
All  for  the  glance  of  one  dark  eye  ; 
The  hand  is  weak,  the  heart  is  chill — 
The  glance  that  kindled,  colder  still. 

Eleleu. 

rv. 

By  Tyres'  bank,  like  Tyres'  wave, 
The  hours  of  youth  went  softly  by. 

Alas  !  their  silence  could  not  save 
My  being  from  an  evil  eye  : 

It  watched  me — little  though  I  knew 
The  wrath  around  me  rising  slow, 

Nor  deemed  my  love  like  Upas  dew, 

A  plague,  that  where  it  settled,  slew. 

1  Tyres,  a  river  of  Scythia,  now  the  Dneister. 


206  A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

My  time  approached  ;  I  met  my  foe  : 
Down  with  a  troop  he  came  by  night,1 
We  fought  them  by  their  lances'  light. 
On  lifeless  hearth,  and  guardless  gate, 
The  dawn  of  day  came  desolate. 

Eleleu. 


v. 


Away,  away — a  Persian's  slave, 

I  saw  my  bird  of  beauty  borne, 
In  wild  despair,  too  weak  to  save, 

Too  maddening  to  mourn. 
There  dwells  a  sound  within  my  brain 

Of  horses  hoofs'  beat  swift  and  hollow, 
Heard,  when  across  the  distant  plain. 
Elaira  stretched  her  arms  in  vain, 

To  him  whose  limbs  were  faint  to  follow ; 
The  spoiler  knew  not,  when  he  fled, 
The  power  impending  o'er  his  head  ; 
The  strength  so  few  have  tameless  tried, 
That  love  can  give  for  grief  to  guide. 

Eleleu. 


VL 

I  flung  my  bow  behind  my  back, 

And  took  a  javelin  in  my  hand, 
And  followed  on  the  fiery  track 

Their  rapine  left  upon  the  land. 
The  desert  sun  in  silence  set, 

The  desert  darkness  climbed  the  sky  ; 
I  knew  that  one  was  waking  yet, 
Whose  heart  was  wild,  whose  eye  was  wet, 

For  me  and  for  my  misery. 

1  There    were  frequent  incursions  made  by  the  Persians  upon  the 
Scythians  before  the  grand  invasion  of  Darius. 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG.  207 

One  who  had  left  her  glance  of  grief, 
Of  earthly  guides  my  chosen  and  chief  ; 
Through  thirst  and  fear,  by  wave  and  hill, 
That  dark  eye  watched  and  wooed  me  still. 

Eleleu. 

vn. 

Weary  and  weak  their  traces  lost, 

I  roved  the  brazen  cities  through  ; 
That  Helle's  undulating  coast 

Doth  lift  beside  its  billows  blue. 
Till  in  a  palace-bordered  street, 

In  the  dusk  starlight  of  the  day, 
A  stalkless  flower  fell  near  my  feet, 
Withered  and  worn,  yet  passing  sweet ; 

Its  root  was  left, — how  far  away  ? 
Its  leaves  were  wet,  though  not  with  dew ; 
The  breast  that  kept,  the  hand  that  threw, 
Were  those  of  one  who  sickened  more, 
For  the  sweet  breeze  of  Tyres'  shore. 

Eleleu. 

vin. 

My  tale  is  long.     Though  bolts  of  brass 

Held  not  their  captive's  faint  upbraiding, 
They  melt  like  wax,  they  bend  like  grass, 

At  sorrow's  touch,  when  love  is  aiding  ; 
The  night  was  dim,  the  stars  were  dead, 

The  drifting  clouds  were  grey  and  wide  ; 
The  captive  joined  me  and  we  fled, 
Quivering  with  joy,  though  cold  with  dread, 

She  shuddered  at  my  side. 
We  passed  the  streets,  we  gained  the  gate, 
Where  round  the  wall  its  watchers  wait ; 
Our  steps  beneath  were  hushed  and  slow, 
For  the  third  time — I  met  my  foe. 

Eleleu. 


208  d  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

IX. 

Swift  answering  as  his  anger  cried, 

Came  down  the  sworded  sentinels ; 
I  dashed  their  closing  spears  aside  ; 

They  thicken,  as  a  torrent  swells, 
When  tempests  feed  its  mountain  source, 

O'er-matched,  borne  down,  with  javelins  rent, 
I  backed  them  still  with  fainting  force, 
Till  the  life  curdled  in  its  course, 

And  left  my  madness  innocent. 
The  echo  of  a  maiden's  shriekj 
Mixed  with  my  dreaming  long  and  weak, 
And  when  I  woke  the  daybreak  fell 
Into  a  dark  and  silent  celL 

Eleleu. 


Know  ye  the  price  that  must  atone, 

When  power  is  mocked  at  by  its  slave  ? 
Know  ye  the  kind  of  mercy  shown, 

When  pride  condemns,  though  love  would  save? 
A  sullen  plash  was  heard  that  night 

To  check  the  calm  of  Helle's  flow  ; 
And  there  was  much  of  love  and  light, 
Quenched,  where  the  foam-globes  moved  most  white, 

With  none  to  save  and  few  to  know. 
Me  they  led  forth,  at  dawn  of  day, 
To  mock,  to  torture,  and  to  slay  ; 
They  found  my  courage  calm  and  mild, 
Until  my  foe  came  near  and  smiled. 

Eleleu. 

XI. 

He  told  me  how  the  midnight  chasm 

Of  ocean  had  been  sweetly  fed  : 
He  paled — recoiling,  for  a  spasm 

Came  o'er  the  limbs  they  dreamed  were  dead : 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG.  209 

The  earth  grew  hot — the  sky  grew  black — 

The  twisted  cords  gave  way  like  tow  ; 
I  felt  the  branding  fetters  crack, 
And  saw  the  torturers  starting  back, 

And  more  I  do  not  know, 
Until  my  stretched  limbs  dashed  their  way 
Through  the  cold  sea's  resulting  spray, 
And  left  me  where  its  surges  bore 
Their  voices  to  a  lif  eless  shore. 

Eleleu. 


xn. 


Mine  aged  eyes  are  dim  and  dry  ; 

They  have  not  much  to  see  or  mourn, 
Save  when  in  sleep,  pale  thoughts  pass  by — 

My  heart  is  with  their  footsteps  worn 
Into  a  pathway.     Swift  and  steep 

Their  troops  pass  down  it — and  I  feel  not — 
Though  they  have  words  would  make  me  weep 
If  I  could  tell  their  meaning  deep — 

But  /  forget — and  they  reveal  not : 
Oh,  lost  Elaira  ! — when  I  go 
Where  cold  hands  hold  the  soundless  bow, 
Shall  the  black  earth,  all  pitiless, 

Forget  the  early  grave 
Of  her,  whom  beauty  did  not  bless, 

Affection  could  not  save  ? 

Eleleu. 

XHL 

Oh,  lost  Elaira !  long  for  thee 

Sweet  Tyres'  banks  have  blushed  in  vain ; 
And  blight  to  them  and  death  to  me 

Shall  break  the  link  of  memory's  chain. 
My  spirit  keeps  its  lonely  lair 

In  mouldering  life  to  burn  and  blacken  ; 


210  A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

The  throbs  that  moved  it  once  are  there 
Like  winds  that  stir  a  dead  man's  hair, 

Unable  to  awaken. 
Thy  soul  on  earth  supremely  smiled, 
In  beauty  bright,  in  mercy  mild, 
It  looked  to  love,  it  breathed  to  bless — 
It  died,  and  left  me — merciless. 

Sleleu. 

XIV. 

And  men  shrink  from  me,  with  no  sense 

That  the  fierce  heart  they  fear  and  fly, 
Is  one,  whose  only  evidence 

Of  beating  is  in  agony. 
They  know,  with  me,  to  match  or  melt, 

The  sword  or  prayer  alike  are  vain  ; 
The  spirit's  presence,  half  unfelt, 
Hath  left, — slow  withering  where  it  dwelt* 

One  precedence  of  pain. 
All  that  my  victims  feel  or  fear 
Is  well  avenged  by  something  here  ; 
And  every  curse  they  breathe  on  me 
Joins  in  the  deep  voice  of  the  sea. 

Eleleu. 

xv. 

It  rolls — it  coils — it  foams — it  flashes, 

Pale  and  putrid — ghastly  green  ; 
Lit  with  light  of  dead  men's  ashes 

Flickering  through  the  black  weed's  screen. 
Oh  !  there  along  the  breathless  land, 

Elaira  keeps  the  couch  allotted  ; 
The  waters  wave  her  weary  hand, 
And  toss  pale  shells  and  ropy  sand 

About  her  dark  hair,  clasped  and  clotted. 
The  purple  isles  are  bright  above 
The  frail  and  moon-blanched  bones  of  love  ; 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONGf.  211 

Their  citron  breeze  is  full  of  bliss, 
Her  lips  are  cool  without  its  kiss. 

Eleleu. 


XVI. 

My  thoughts  are  wandering  and  weak  ; 

Forgive  an  old  man's  dotard  dreaming  ; 
I  know  not  sometimes  when  I  speak 

Such  visions  as  have  quiet  seeming. 
I  told  you  how  my  madness  bore 

My  limbs  from  torture.     When  I  woke, 
I  do  remember  something  more 
Of  wandering  on  the  wet  sea-shore, 

By  waving  weed  and  withered  rock, 
Calling  Elaira,  till  the  name 
Crossed  o'er  the  waters  as  they  came — 
Mildly — to  hallow  and  to  bless 

Even  what  had  made  it  meaningless — 

Eleleu. 


xvrr. 

The  waves  in  answering  murmurs  mixed, 

Tossed  a  frail  fetter  on  the  sand  ; 
Too  well  I  knew  whose  fingers  fixed, 

Whose  arm  had  lost  the  golden  band ; 
For  such  it  was,  as  still  confines 
Faint  Beauty's  arm  who  will  not  listen, 
The  words  of  love  that  mockery  twines. 
To  soothe  the  soul  that  pants  and  pines 

Within  its  rose- encumbered  prison. 
The  waters  freed  her  ;  she  who  wore, 
Fetter  or  armlet  needs  no  more  ; 
Could  the  wavelets  tell,  who  saw  me  lift, 
For  whom  I  kept,  their  glittering  gift, 

Eleleu. 


A  SGTTmAN  BANQUET  SONG. 
xvm. 

Slow  drifts  the  hour  when  Patience  waits 

Revenge's  answering  orison  ; 
But — one  by  one  the  darkening  Fates 

Will  draw  the  balanced  axle  on, 
Till  torture  pays  the  price  of  pride, 

And  watches  wave  with  sullen  shine, 
The  sword  of  sorrow  justified. 
The  long  years  kept  their  quiet  glide, 

His  hour  was  past :  they  brought  me  mine. 
When  steed  to  steed,  and  rank  to  rank, 
With  matched  numbers  fierce  and  frank, 
(The  war- wolves  waiting  near  to  see 
Our  battle  bright)  my  Foe  met  Me. 

Ha — Hurra ! 

XIX. 

As  the  tiger  tears  through  the  jungle  reeds, 

As  the  west  wind  breaks  through  the  sharp  corn  ears, 
As  the  quick  death  follows  where  the  lightning  leads, 

Did  my  dark  horse  bear  through  the  bended  spears  ; 
And  the  blood  came  up  to  my  brain  like  a  mist, 

With  a  dark  delight  and  a  fiery  feel ; 
For  the  black  darts  hailed,  and  the  javelins  hissed, 
To  the  corpses  clasped  in  their  tortured  twist, 

From  mine  arms  like  rain  from  the  red-hot  steel. 
Well  went  the  wild  horses — well  rode  their  lords — 
Wide  waved  the  sea  of  their  circling  swords  ; 
But  down  went  the  wild  steeds — down  went  the  sea- 
Down  went  the  dark  banners — down  went  He. 

Ha — Hurra ! 

xx. 

For,  forward  fixed,  my  frenzy  rushed, 

To  one  pale  plume  of  fitful  wave  ; 
With  failing  strength,  o'er  corpses  crushed, 

My  horse  obeyed  the  spurs  I  gave. 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

Slow  rolled  the  tide  of  battle  by, 

And  left  me  on  the  field  alone 
Save  that  a  goodly  company 
Lay  gazing  on  the  bright  blue  sky, 

All  as  stiff  as  stone. 

And  the  howling  wolves  came,  merry  and  thick, 
The  flesh  to  tear  and  the  bones  to  pick. 
I  left  his  carcass,  a  headless  prize, 
To  these  priests  of  mine  anger's  sacrifice. 

Ha — Hurra  I 

xxi 

Hungry  they  came,  though  at  first  they  fled 

From  the  grizzly  look  of  a  stranger  guest — 
From  a  horse  with  its  hoof  on  a  dead  man's  head, 

And  a  soldier  who  leaned  on  a  lance  in  his  breast. 
The  night  wind's  voice  was  hoarse  and  deep, 

But  there  were  thoughts  within  me  rougher, 
When  my  foiled  passion  could  not  keep 
His  eyes  from  settling  into  sleep 

That  could  not  see,  nor  suffer. 
He  knew  his  spirit  was  delivered 
By  the  last  nerve  my  sword  had  severed, 
And  lay — his  death  pang  scarcely  done, 
Stretched  at  my  mercy — asking  none. 

Eleleu. 

XXII. 

His  lips  were  pale.     They  once  had  worn 

A  fiercer  paleness.     For  awhile 
Their  gashes  kept  the  curl  of  scorn 

But  now — they  always  smile. 
A  life  like  that  of  smouldering  ashes, 

Had  kept  his  shadowy  eyeballs  burning. 
Full  through  the  neck  my  sabre  crashes — 
The  black  blood  burst  beneath  their  lashes 

In  the  strained  sickness  of  their  turning. 


214:  A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG. 

By  my  bridle-rein  did  I  hang  the  head, 
And  I  spurred  my  horse  through  the  quick  and  dead, 
Till  his  hoofs  and  his  hair  dropped  thick  and  fresh, 
From  the  black  morass  of  gore  and  flesh. 

Ha — Hurra  I 

xxm. 

My  foe  had  left  me  little  gold 

To  mock  the  stolen  food  of  the  grave, 
Except  one  circlet :  I  have  told 

The  arm  that  lost,  the  surge  that  gave, 
Flexile  it  was,  of  fairest  twist : 

Pressing  its  sunlike,  woven  line, 
A  careless  counter  had  not  missed 
One  pulse  along  a  maiden's  wrist, 

So  softly  did  the  clasp  confine. 
This — molten  till  it  flowed  as  free 
As  daybreak  on  the  Egean  sea, 
He  who  once  clasped — for  Love  to  sever 
And  death  to  lose,  received — for  ever. 


xxrv. 

I  poured  it  round  the  wrinkled  brow, 

Till  hissed  its  cold,  corrupted  skin  ; 
Through  sinuous  nerves  the  fiery  flow 

Sucked  and  seared  the  brain  within. 
The  brittle  bones  were  well  annealed, 

A  bull's  hide  bound  the  goblet  grim, 
Which  backwards  bended,  and  revealed 
The  dark  eye  sealed,  the  set  lips  peeled  : 

Look  here  !  how  I  have  pardoned  him. 
They  call  it  glorious  to  forgive  ; 
'Tis  dangerous,  among  those  that  live, 
But  the  dead  are  daggerless  and  mild, 
And  my  foe  smiles  on  me — like  a  child. 


A  SCYTHIAN  BANQUET  SONG.  215 

XXV. 

Fill  me  the  wine !  for  daylight  fades, 

The  evening  mists  fall  cold  and  blue  ; 
My  soul  is  crossed  with  lonelier  shades, 

My  brow  is  damp  with  darker  dew ; 
The  earth  hath  nothing  but  its  bed 

Left  more  for  me  to  seek,  or  shun  ; 
My  rage  is  passed — my  vengeance  fed — 
The  grass  is  wet  with  what  I've  shed, 

The  air  is  dark  with  what  I've  done  ; 
And  the  gray  mound,  that  I  have  built 
Of  intermingled  grief  and  guilt, 
Sits  on  my  breast  with  sterner  seat 
Than  my  old  heart  can  bear,  and  beat. 

Eleleu 

XXVI. 

Fill  wine  !    These  fleshless  jaws  are  dry, 

And  gurgle  with  the  crimson  breath  ; 
Fill  me  the  wine  !  for  such  as  I 

Are  meet,  methinks,  to  drink  with  death. 
Give  me  the  roses !    They  shall  weave 

One  crown  for  me,  and  one  for  him, 
Fresher  than  his  compeers  receive, 
Who  slumber  where  the  white  worms  leave 

Their  tracks  of  slime  on  cheek  and  limb. 
Kiss  me,  mine  enemy  !     Lo  !  how  it  slips, 
The  rich  red  wine  through  his  skeleton  lips  ; 
His  eye-holes  glitter,  his  loose  teeth  shake, 
But  their  words  are  all  drowsy  and  will  not  wake. 

xxvn. 

That  lifeless  gaze  is  fixed  on  me  ; 

Those  lips  would  hail  a  bounden  brother ; 
We  sit  in  love,  and  smile  to  see 

The  things  that  we  have  made  each  other. 


21G  THE  SCTTSIAN  GUEST. 

The  wreaking  of  our  wrath  has  reft 

Our  souls  of  all  that  loved  or  lightened  : 

He  knows  the  heart  his  hand  has  left, 

He  sees  its  calm  and  closeless  cleft, 

And  / — the  bones  my  vengeance  whitened. 

Kiss  me,  mine  enemy !     Fill  thee  with  wine  ! 

Be  the  flush  of  thy  revelling  mingled  with  mine  ; 

Since  the  hate  and  the  horror  we  drew  with  our  breath 

Are  lost  in  forgiveness,  and  darkened  in  death. 


THE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST. 

WHEN  the  master  of  a  Scythian  family  died  he  was  placed  in  his  state 
chariot,  and  carried  to  visit  every  one  of  his  blood  relations.  Each  of 
them  gave  him  and  his  attendants  a  splendid  feast  at  which  the  dead 
man  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  a  piece  of  everything  was  put  on 
his  plate.  In  the  morning  he  continued  his  circuit.  This  round  of 
visits  generally  occupied  nearly  forty  days,  and  he  was  never  buried 
till  the  whole  number  had  elapsed.  I  have  taken  him  at  about  six  days 
old  when  a  little  phosphoric  light  might  play  about  his  skin  in  the  dark, 
and  yet  the  corruption  would  not,  in  a  cool  country,  have  made  any- 
thing shapeless  or  decidedly  unpleasant. — See  Herodotui,  Melpomene,  73. 


THE  feast  is  full,  the  guests  are  gay, 

Though  at  his  lance-illumined  door 
Still  must  the  anxious  master  stay, 

For,  by  the  echoing  river  shore, 
He  hears  the  hot  and  hurrying  beat 
Of  harnessed  horse's  flying  feet, 
And  waits  to  watch  and  yearns  to  greet 

The  coming  of  the  brave. 
Behold — like  showers  of  silver  sleet, 

His  lines  of  lances  wind  and  wave  : 
He  comes  as  he  was  wont  to  ride 
By  Hypanis'  war  troubled  tide, 
When,  like  the  west  wind's  sternest  stoop, 
Was  the  strength  of  his  tempestuous  troop, 


TSE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST. 

And  when  their  dark  steeds'  shadows  swift 

Had  crossed  the  current's  foamless  drift, 

The  light  of  the  river  grew  dazzled  and  dim, 

With  the  flash  of  the  hair  and  the  flight  of  the  limb. 


He  comes — urged  on  by  shout  and  lash, 

His  favorite  courser  flies  ; 
There's  frenzy  in  its  drooping  dash, 

And  sorrow  in  its  eyes. 
Close  on  its  hoofs  the  chariots  crash, 
Their  shook  reins  ring — their  axles  flash — 
The  charioteers  are  wild  and  rash  ; 
Panting  and  cloven  the  swift  air  feels 
The  red  breath  of  the  whirling  wheels, 
Hissing  with  heat,  and  drunk  with  speed 
Of  wild  delight,  that  seems  to  feed 
Upon  the  fire  of  its  own  flying 
Yet  he  for  whom  they  race  is  lying 
Motionless  in  his  chariot,  and  still 
lake  one  of  weak  desire  or  fettered  will, 
Is  it  the  sun-lulled  sleep  of  weariness 
That  weighs  upon  him  ?    Lo !  there  is  no  stress 
Of  slumber  on  his  eyelids — some  slow  trance, 
Seems  dwelling  on  the  darkness  of  his  glance  ; 
Its  depth  is  quiet,  and  its  keenness  cold 
As  an  eagle's  quenched  with  lightning,  the  close  fold 
Of  his  strong  arms  is  listless,  like  the  twine 
Of  withered  weeds  along  the  waving  line 
Of  flowing  streams  ;  and  o'er  his  face  a  strange 
Deep  shadow  is  cast,  which  doth  not  move  nor  change. 

m. 

At  the  known  gate  the  courses  check, 
With  panting  breast  and  lowly  neck  ; 
From  kingly  group,  from  menial  crowd, 
The  cry  of  welcome  rings  aloud  : 


218  THE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST. 

It  was  not  wont  to  be  so  weak, — 

Half  a  shout  and  half  a  shriek, 

Mixed  with  the  low  yet  penetrating  quiver 

Of  constrained  voices,  such  as  creep 

Into  cold  words,  when,  dim  and  deep, 

Beneath  the  wild  heart's  death-like  shiver 

Mocks  at  the  message  that  the  lips  deliver. 


rv. 


Doth  he  not  hear  ?    Will  he  not  wake  ? 
That  shout  of  welcome  did  not  break, 
Even  for  an  instant  on  the  trace 
Of  the  dark  shadow  o'er  his  face. 
Behold,  his  slaves  in  silence  lift 
That  frame  so  strong,  those  limbs  so  swift, 
Like  a  sick  child's  ;  though  half  erect 
He  rose  when  first  his  chariot  checked, 
He  fell — as  leaves  fall  on  the  spot 
Where  summer  sun  shall  waken  not 
The  mingling  of  their  veined  sensation, 
With  the  black  earth's  wormy  desolation. 
With  stealthy  tread,  like  those  that  dread 
To  break  the  peace  of  sorrow's  slumber, 

They  move,  whose  martial  force  he  led, 
Whose  arms  his  passive  limbs  encumber : 

Through  passage  and  port,  through  corridor  and  court^ 
They  hold  their  dark,  slow-trodden  track  ; 

Beneath  that  crouching  figure's  scowl 
The  household  dogs  hang  wildly  back, 

With  wrinkled  lip  and  hollow  howl ; 
And  on  the  mien  of  those  they  meet, 

Their  presence  passes  like  the  shadow 
Of  the  grey  storm-cloud's  swirling  sheet, 

Along  some  soft  sun-lighted  meadow  ; 
For  those  who  smiled  before  they  met, 

Have  turned  away  to  smile  no  more ; 


THE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST.  219 

Even  as  they  pass,  their  lips  forget 
The  words  they  wove — the  hues  they  wore  ; 

Even  as  they  look,  the  eyes  grow  wet 
That  glanced  most  bright  before ! 

v. 

The  feast  is  ranged,  the  guests  are  met ; 

High  on  the  central  throne, 
That  dark  and  voiceless  Lord  is  set, 

And  left  alone  ; 
And  the  revel  is  loud  among  the  crowd, 

As  the  laugh  on  surges  free, 
Of  their  merry  and  multitudinous  lips, 
When  the  fiery  foamlight  skims  and  skips, 

Along  the  sounding  sea. 
The  wine  is  red  and  wildly  shed, 
The  wreathed  jest  is  gaily  sped. 
And  the  rush  of  their  merriment  rises  aloof 
Into  the  shade  of  the  ringing  roof ; 
And  yet  their  cheeks  look  faint  and  dead, 

And  their  lips  look  pale  and  dry ; 
In  every  heart  there  dwells  a  dread, 

And  a  trouble  in  every  eye. 

VI. 

For  sternly  charmed,  or  strangely  chill, 

That  lonely  Lord  sits  stiff  and  still, 

Far  in  the  chamber  gathered  back 

Where  the  lamps  are  few,  and  the  shadows  black  ; 

So  that  the  strained  eye  scarce  can  guess 

At  the  fearful  form  of  his  quietness, 

And  shrinks  from  what  it  cannot  trace, 

Yet  feels,  is  worse  than  even  the  error 
That  veils,  within  that  ghastly  space, 
The  shrouded  form  and  shadowed  face 

Of  indistinct,  unmoving  terror. 


220  THE  S'JYTHIAN  GUEST. 

And  the  life  and  light  of  the  atmosphere 

Are  choked  with  mingled  mist  and  fear, 

Something  half  substance  and  half  thought,— 

A  feeling,  visibly  inwrought 

Into  the  texture  of  the  air  ; 

And  though  the  fanned  lamps  flash  and  flare 

Among  the  other  guests — by  Him, 

They  have  grown  narrow,  and  blue  and  dim, 

And  steady  in  their  fire,  as  if 

Some  frigid  horror  made  them  stiff. 

Nor  eye  hath  marked,  nor  ear  hath  heard 

That  form,  if  once  it  breathed  or  stirred ; 

Though  the  dark  revel's  forced  fits 

Penetrate  where  it  sleeps  and  sits ; 

But  this,  their  fevered  glances  mark 

Ever,  for  ever,  calm  and  dark  ; 

With  lifeless  hue,  and  changeless  trace, 

That  shadow  dwells  upon  his  face. 


vn. 


It  is  not  pain,  nor  passion,  but  a  deep 

Incorporated  darkness,  like  the  sleep 

Of  the  lead-coloured  anger  of  the  ocean, 

When  the  heaven  is  fed  with  death,  and  its  gray  motion 

Over  the  waves,  invisible — it  seems 

Entangled  with  the  flesh,  till  the  faint  gleams 

Of  natural  flush  have  withered  like  the  light 

Of  the  keen  morning,  quenched  with  the  close  flight 

Of  thunder ;  and  beneath  that  deadly  veil, 

The  coldness  of  the  under-skin  is  pale 

And  ghastly,  and  transparent  as  beneath 

Some  midnight  vapour's  intertwined  wreath 

Glares  the  green  moonlight ;  and  a  veined  fire 

Seems  throbbing  through  it,  like  a  dim  desire 

Felt  through  inanimation,  of  charmed  life 

Struggling  with  strong  sick  pants  of  beaming  strife, 


THE  SCYTHIAN  GUEST.  221 

That  wither  and  yet  warm  not : — through  its  veins, 
The  quenched  blood  beats  not,  burns  not,  but  dark  stains 
Of  congealed  blackness,  on  the  cheek  and  brow, 

Lie  indistinct  amidst  their  frightful  shade  ; 
The  breathless  lips,  like  two  thin  flakes  of  snow, 

Gleam  with  wan  lines,  by  some  past  agony  made 
To  set  into  the  semblance  of  a  smile, 
Such  as  strong-hearted  men  wear  wildly,  while 
Their  souls  are  twined  with  torture  ;  calm  and  fixed, 

And  yet  distorted,  as  it  could  not  be, 
Had  not  the  chill  with  which  it  froze  been  mixed 

With  twitching  cords  of  some  strong  agony. 
And  the  white  teeth  gleam  through  the  ghastly  chasm 
Of  that  strange  smile  ;  close  clenched,  as  the  last  spasm 
Of  the  wrung  nerves  has  knit  them  ;  could  they  move, 
They  would  gnash  themselves  to  pieces  ;  from  above 
The  veiling  shadow  of  the  forehead  falls, 
Yet  with  an  under-glare  the  fixed  balls 
Of  the  dark  eyes  gleam  steadily,  though  not 
With  any  inward  light,  or  under-thought, 
But  casting  back  from  their  forgetful  trance, 
To  each  who  looks,  the  flash  of  his  own  glance ; 
So  that  each  feels,  of  all  assembled  there, 
Fixed  on  himself,  that  strange  and  meaning  glare 
Of  eyes  most  motionless  ;  the  long  dark  hair 
Hangs  tangled  o'er  the  faded  feature's  gloom, 
Like  withered  weeds  above  a  mouldering  tomb, 
Matted  in  black  decay  ;  the  cold  night  air 
Hath  stirred  them  once  or  twice,  even  as  despair 
Plays  with  the  heart's  worn  chords,  that  last  retain 
Their  sense  of  sorrow,  and  their  pulse  of  pain. 

vm. 

Yet  strike,  oh !  strike  the  chorded  shell, 

And  let  the  notes  be  low  and  skilled ; 
Perchance  the  words  he  loved  so  well 

May  thrill  as  once  they  thrilled. 


222  THE  SCYTHIAN  QUEST. 

That  deadened  ear  may  still  be  true 
To  the  soft  voice  that  once  it  knew ; 
And  the  throbs  that  beat  below  the  heart, 

And  the  joys  that  burn  above, 
Shall  bid  the  light  of  laughter  dart 

Along  the  lips  of  love. 
Alas !  those  tones  are  all  untold 
On  ear  and  heart  so  closed  and  cold  ; 
The  slumber  shall  be  sound, — the  night, — how  long  I 
That  will  not  own  the  power  of  smile  or  song  ; 
Those  lips  of  love  may  burn,  his  eyes  are  dim  ; 
That  voice  of  joy  may  wake,  but  not  for  him. 


IX. 


The  rushing  wine,  the  rose's  flush, 

Have  crowned  the  goblet's  glancing  brim ; 
But  who  shall  call  the  blossom's  blush, 

Or  bid  the  goblet  flow  for  him  ? 
For  how  shall  thirst  or  hunger's  heat 

Attend  the  sunless  track, 
Towards  the  cool  and  calm  retreat, 
From  which  his  courser's  flashing  feet 

Can  never  bear  him  back  ? 
There  by  the  cold  corpse-guarded  hill, 
The  shadows  fall  both  broad  and  still ; 
There  shall  they  fall  at  night, — at  noon, 

Nor  own  the  day  star's  warning, 
Grey  shades,  that  move  not  with  the  moon, 
And  perish  not  with  morning. 


Farewell,  farewell,  thou  presence  pale  ? 

The  bed  is  stretched  where  thou  shouldst  be  ; 
The  dawn  may  lift  its  crimson  veil, 

It  doth  not  breathe,,  nor  burn  for  thee. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  223 

The  mien  of  might,  the  glance  of  light, 

That  checked  or  cheered  the  war's  career, 
Are  dreadless  in  the  fiery  fight, 

Are  dreadful  only  here. 
Exulting  hatred,  red  and  rife, 

May  smile  to  mark  thine  altered  brow ; 
There  are  but  those  who  loved  in  life, 

Who  fear  thee,  now. 
Farewell,  farewell,  thou  Presence  pale ! 

The  couch  is  near  where  thou  shouldst  be ; 
Thy  troops  of  Death  have  donned  their  mail, 

And  wait  and  watch  for  thee. 


THE  BKOKEN  CHAIN. 
PART  FIRST. 


IT  is  most  sad  to  see — to  know 
This  world  so  full  of  war  and  woe, 

E'er  since  our  parents  failing  duty 
Bequeathed  the  curse  to  all  below, 

And  left  the  burning  breach  of  beauty. 
Where  the  flower  hath  fairest  hue, 

Where  the  breeze  hath  balmiest  breath, 
Where  the  dawn  hath  softest  dew, 
Where  the  heaven  hath  deepest  blue, 

There  is  death. 
Where  the  gentle  streams  of  thinking, 

Through  our  hearts  that  flow  so  free, 
Have  the  deepest,  softest  sinking 

And  the  fullest  melody  ; 
Where  the  crown  of  hope  is  nearest, 
Where  the  voice  of  joy  is  clearest, 
Where  the  heart  of  youth  is  lightest, 
Where  the  light  of  love  is  brightest, 

There  is  death. 


224  TEE  BROKEN  CHAW. 


ii. 


It  is  the  hour  when  day's  delight 

Fadeth  in  the  dewy  sorrow 
Of  the  star  inwoven  night ; 
And  the  red  lips  of  the  west 
Are  in  smiles  of  lightning  drest, 

Speaking  of  a  lovely  morrow  : 
But  there's  an  eye  in  which,  from  far, 
The  chill  beams  of  the  evening  star 

Do  softly  move,  and  mildly  quiver  ; 
Which,  ere  the  purple  mountains  meet 
The  light  of  morning's  misty  feet, 

Will  be  dark — and  dark  for  ever. 


m. 


It  was  within  a  convent  old, 

Through  her  lips  the  low  breath  sighing, 
Which  the  quick  pains  did  unfold 
With  a  paleness  calm,  but  cold, 

Lay  a  lovely  lady  dying. 
As  meteors  from  the  sunless  north 

Through  long  low  clouds  illume  the  air, 
So  brightly  shone  her  features  forth 

Amidst  her  darkly  tangled  hair  ; 
And,  like  a  spirit,  still  and  slow, 

A  light  beneath  that  raven  veil 
Moved, — where  the  blood  forgot  to  glow, 
As  moonbeams  shine  on  midnight  snow, 

So  dim, — so  sad, — so  pale. 
And,  ever  as  the  death  came  nearer, 
That  melancholy  light  waxed  clearer  : 
It  rose,  it  shone,  it  never  dwindled, 

As  if  in  death  it  could  not  die  ; 
The  air  was  filled  with  it,  and  kindled 

As  souls  are  by  sweet  agony. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  225 

Where  once  the  life  was  rich  and  red, 
The  burning  lip  was  dull  and  dead, 
As  crimson  cloud-streaks  melt  away, 
Before  a  ghastly  darkened  day. 
Faint  and  low  the  pulses  faded, 

One  by  one,  from  brow  and  limb  ; 
There  she  lay — her  dark  eyes  shaded 

By  her  fingers  dim  ; 

And  through  their  paly  brightness  burning 
With  a  wild  inconstant  motion, 
As  reflected  stars  of  morning 

Through  the  crystal  foam  of  ocean. 
There  she  lay — like  something  holy, 
Moveless — voiceless,  breathing  slowly, 
Passing,  withering,  fainting,  failing, 
Lulled  and  lost  and  unbewailing. 

rv. 

The  abbess  knelt  beside,  to  bless 
Her  parting  hour  with  tenderness, 
And  watched  the  light  of  life  depart, 
With  tearful  eye  and  weary  heart ; 
And,  ever  and  anon,  would  dip 

Her  fingers  in  the  hallowed  water, 
And  lay  it  on  her  parching  lip, 

Or  cross  her  death-damped  brow ; 
And  softly  whisper, — Peace, — my  daughter, 

For  thou  shalt  slumber  softly  now. 
And  upward  held,  with  pointing  finger, 

The  cross  before  her  darkening  eye  ; 
Its  glance  was  changing,  nor  did  linger 

Upon  the  ebon  and  ivory  ; 
Her  lips  moved  feebly,  and  the  air 
Between  them  whispered — not  with  prayer ! 
Oh  !  who  shall  know  what  wild  and  deep 
Imaginations  rouse  from  sleep, 
Within  that  heart,  whose  quick  decay 
So  soon  shall  sweep  them  all  away. 
4 


226  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Oh  !  who  shall  know  what  things  they  be 
That  tongue  would  tell — that  glance  doth  see 
Which  rouse  the  voice,  the  vision  fill, 
Ere  eye  be  dark,  and  tongue  be  still 

v. 

It  is  most  fearful  when  the  light 
Of  thoughts,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
That  through  the  heart's  illumination 

Darts  burning  beams  and  fiery  flashes, 
Fades  into  weak  wan  animation, 

And  darkens  into  dust  and  ashes  ; 
And  hopes,  that  to  the  heart  have  been 
As  to  the  forest  is  its  green, 

(Or  as  the  gentle  passing  by 
Of  its  spirits'  azure  wings 

Is  to  the  broad,  wind-wearied  sky) ; 
Do  pale  themselves  like  fainting  things, 

And  wither,  one  by  one,  away, 
Leaving  a  ghastly  silence  where 

Their  voice  was  wont  to  move  and  play 
Amidst  the  fibres  of  our  feeling, 
Like  the  low  and  unseen  stealing, 

Of  the  soft  and  sultry  air ; 
That,  with  its  fingers  weak  unweaves 

The  dark  and  intertangled  hair, 
Of  many  moving  forest  leaves ; 
And,  though  their  life  be  lost  do  float, 
Around  us  still,  yet  far  remote, 
And  come  at  the  same  call  arranged, 
By  the  same  thoughts,  but  oh,  how  changed ! 
Alas !  dead  hopes  are  fearful  things, 

To  dwell  around  us,  for  their  eyes 
Pierce  through  our  souls  like  adder  stings ; 

Vampyre-like  their  troops  arise, 
Each  in  his  own  death  entranced, 
Frozen  and  corpse-countenanced  \ 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Filling  memory's  maddened  eye 
With  a  shadowed  mockery. 
And  a  wan  and  fevered  vision, 
Of  her  loved  and  lost  Elysian  ; 

Until  we  hail,  and  love,  and  bless 
The  last  strange  joy,  where  joy  hath  fled, 
The  last  one  hope,  where  hope  is  dead, 

The  finger  of  forgetfulness  ; 
Which,  dark  as  night,  and  dull  as  lead, 
Comes  across  the  spirit  passing, 

Like  a  coldness  through  night  air, 
With  its  withering  wings  effacing 

Thoughts  that  lived  or  lingered  there  ; 

Light,  and  life,  and  joy,  and  pain, 
Till  the  frozen  heart  rejoices, 
As  the  echoes  of  lost  voices 

Die  and  do  not  rise  again  ; 
And  shadowy  memories  wake  no  more 
Along  the  heart's  deserted  shore  ; 
But  fall  and  faint  away  and  sicken, 
Like  a  nation  fever-stricken, 
And  see  not  from  the  bosom  reffc 
The  desolation  they  have  left. 

VI. 

Yet,  though  that  trance  be  still  and  deep, 
It  will  be  broken  ere  its  sleep 

Be  dark  and  unawaked — forever ; 
And  from  the  soul  quick  thoughts  will  leap 

Forth  like  a  sad,  sweet-singing  river, 
Whose  gentle  waves  flow  softly  o'er 
That  broken  heart, — that  desert  shore  ; 
The  lamp  of  life  leaps  up  before 
Its  light  be  lost  to  live  no  more  ; 

Ere  yet  its  shell  of  clay  be  shattered, 
And  all  the  beams  at  once  could  pour, 

In  dust  of  death  be  darkly  scattered. 


228  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 


vn. 

Alas !  the  stander-by  might  tell 
That  lady's  racking  thoughts  too  well ; 
The  work  within  he  might  descry 
By  trembling  brow,  and  troubled  eye, 
That  as  the  lightning  fiery,  fierce, 

Strikes  chasms  along  the  keen  ice  plain ; 
The  barbed  and  burning  memories  pierce 

Her  dark  and  dying  brain. 
And  many  mingled  visions  swim 
Within  the  convent  chamber  dim  ; 
The  sad  twilight  whose  lingering  lines 
Fall  faintly  through  the  forest  pines, 
And  with  their  dusky  radiance  lume 
That  lowly  bed  and  lonely  room, 
Are  filled,  before  her  earnest  gaze, 
With  dazzling  dreams  of  by-gone  days. 
They  come,  they  come,  a  countless  host, 
Forms  long  unseen,  and  looks  long  lost, 
And  voices  loved, — not  well  forgot, 

Awake  and  seem,  with  accents  dim, 
Along  the  convent  air  to  float ; 
That  innocent  air  that  knoweth  not, 

A  sound  except  the  vesper  hymn. 

vm. 

Tis  past,  that  rush  of  hurried  thought, 
The  light  within  her  deep  dark  eye 
Was  quenched  by  a  wan  tear  mistily, 
Which  trembled  though  it  lightened  not. 
As  the  cold  peace,  which  all  may  share, 
Soothed  the  last  sorrow  life  could  bear. 
What  grief  was  that,  the  broken  heart 
Loved  to  the  last,  and  would  not  part  ? 
What  grief  was  that,  whose  calmness  cold 
By  death  alone  could  be  consoled  ? 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  229 

As  the  soft  hand  of  coming  rest 
Bowed  her  fair  head  upon  her  breast, 
As  the  last  pulse  decayed,  to  keep 
Her  heart  from  heaving  in  its  sleep, 
The  silence  of  her  voice  was  broken, 

As  by  a  gasp  of  mental  pain  ; 
"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 

Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain." 
The  Abbess  raised  her,  but  in  vain  ; 

For,  as  the  last  faint  word  was  spoken, 
The  silver  cord  was  burst  in  twain, 

The  golden  bowl  was  broken. 


PART  SECOND. 


The  bell  from  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine 

Had  tolled  the  evening  hour  of  prayer  ; 
With  tremulation,  far  and  fine, 

It  waked  the  purple  air  : 
The  peasant  heard  its  distant  beat, 

And  crossed  his  brow  with  reverence  meet : 
The  maiden  heard  it  sinking  sweet 

Within  her  jasmine  bower, 
And  treading  down,  with  silver  feet, 

Each  pale  and  passioned  flower  : 
The  weary  pilgrim,  lowly  lying 

By  Saint  Cecilia's  fountain  grey, 
Smiled  to  hear  that  curfew  dying 

Down  the  darkening  day  : 
And  where  the  white  waves  move  and  glisten 

Along  the  river's  reedy  shore, 
The  lonely  boatman  stood  to  listen, 

Leaning  on  his  lazy  oar. 


230  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

n. 

On  Saint  Cecilia's  vocal  spire 

The  sun  had  cast  his  latest  fire, 

And  flecked  the  west  with  many  a  fold 

Of  purple  clouds  o'er  bars  of  gold. 

That  vocal  spire  is  all  alone, 

Albeit  its  many  winding  tone 

Floats  waste  away — oh !  far  away, 

Where  bowers  are  bright  and  fields  are  gay  ; 

That  vocal  spire  is  all  alone, 

Amidst  a  secret  wilderness, 
With  deep  free  forest  overgrown  ; 

And  purple  mountains,  which  the  kiss 
Of  pale-lipped  clouds  doth  fill  with  love 
Of  the  bright  heaven  that  burns  above, 
The  woods  around  are  wild  and  wide, 

And  interwove  with  breezy  motion ; 
Their  bend  before  the  tempest  tide 

Is  like  the  surge  of  shoreless  ocean  ; 
Their  summer  voice  is  like  the  tread 
Of  trooping  steeds  to  battle  bred  ; 
Their  autumn  voice  is  like  the  cry 
Of  a  nation  clothed  with  misery  ; 
And  the  stillness  of  the  winter's  wood 
Is  as  the  hush  of  a  multitude. 

m. 

The  banks  beneath  are  flecked  with  light, 
All  through  the  clear  and  crystal  night, 
For  as  the  blue  heaven,  rolling  on, 
Doth  lift  the  stars  up  one  by  one  ; 
Each,  like  a  bright  eye  through  its  gates 

Of  silken  lashes  dark  and  long, 
With  lustre  fills,  and  penetrates 

Those  branches  close  and  strong  ; 
And  nets  of  tangled  radiance  weaves 
Between  the  many  twinkling  leaves, 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  231 

And  through  each  small  and  verdant  chasm 
Lets  fall  a  flake  of  fire, 

Till  every  leaf,  with  voiceful  spasm, 
Wakes  like  a  golden  lyre. 

Swift,  though  still,  the  fiery  thrill 
Creeps  along  from  spray  to  spray, 

Light  and  music,  mingled,  fill 
Every  pulse  of  passioned  breath  ; 
Which,  o'er  the  incense — sickened  death 
Of  the  faint  flowers,  that  live  by  day, 
Floats  like  a  soul  above  the  clay, 
Whose  beauty  hath  not  passed  away. 


IV. 

Hark !  hark  !  along  the  twisted  roof 
Of  bough  and  leafage,  tempest-proof, 

There  whispers,  hushed  and  hollow, 
The  beating  of  a  horse's  hoof, 

Which  low,  faint  echoes  follow, 
Down  the  deeply-swarded  floor 

Of  a  forest  aisle,  the  muffled  tread, 

Hissing  where  the  leaves  are  dead, 
Increases  more  and  more  ; 

And  lo  !  between  the  leaves  and  light^ 
Up  the  avenue's  narrow  span, 

There  moves  a  blackness,  shaped  like 
The  shadow  of  a  man. 
Nearer  now,  where  through  the  maze 
Cleave  close  the  horizontal  rays  : 
It  moves — a  solitary  knight, 
Borne  with  undulation  light 

As  is  the  windless  walk  of  ocean, 
On  a  black  steed's  Arabian  grace, 
Mighty  of  mien,  and  proud  of  pace, 

But  modulate  of  motion. 
O'er  breast  and  limb,  from  head  to  heel, 
Fall  flexile  folds  of  sable  steel ; 


232  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Little  the  lightning  of  war  could  avail, 

If  it  glanced  on  the  strength  of  the  folded  mail 

The  beaver  bars  his  visage  mask, 
By  outward  bearings  unrevealed  : 

He  bears  no  crest  upon  his  casque, 
No  symbol  on  his  shield. 

Slowly  and  with  slackened  rein, 

Either  in  sorrow,  or  in  pain, 
Through  the  forest  he  paces  on, 

As  our  life  does  in  a  desolate  dream, 
When  the  heart  and  the  limbs  are  as  heavy  as  stone, 

And  the  remembered  tone  and  moony  gleam 
Of  hushed  voices  and  dead  eyes 
Draw  us  on  the  dim  path  of  shadowy  destiniea 


v. 


The  vesper  chime  hath  ceased  to  beat, 
And  the  hill  echoes  to  repeat 

The  trembling  of  the  argent  bell. 
What  second  sounding — dead  and  deep, 
And  cold  of  cadence,  stirs  the  sleep 

Of  twilight  with  its  sullen  swell  ? 
The  knight  drew  bridle,  as  he  heard 
Its  voice  creep  through  his  beaver  barred, 
Just  where  a  cross  of  marble  stood, 
Grey  in  the  shadow  of  the  wood. 
Whose  youngest  coppice,  twined  and  torn, 
Concealed  its  access  worship-worn  : 
It  might  be  chance — it  might  be  art, 

Or  opportune,  or  unconfessed, 
But  from  this  cross  there  did  depart 

A  pathway  to  the  west ; 
By  which  a  narrow  glance  was  given, 
To  the  high  hills  and  highest  heaven, 
To  the  blue  river's  bended  line, 
And  Saint  Cecilia's  lonely  shrine. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  233 

VL 

Blue,  and  baseless,  and  beautiful 

Did  the  boundless  mountains  bear 

Their  folded  shadows  into  the  golden  air. 

The  comfortlessness  of  their  chasms  was  full 

Of  orient  cloud  and  undulating  mist, 

Which,  where  their  silver  cataracts  hissed, 

Quivered  with  panting  colour.     Far  above 

A  lightning  pulse  of  soundless  fire  did  move 

In  the  blue  heaven  itself,  and,  snake-like,  slid 

Round  peak  and  precipice,  and  pyramid  ; 

White  lines  of  light  along  their  crags  alit, 

And  the  cold  lips  of  their  chasms  were  wreathed  with  it> 

Until  they  smiled  with  passionate  fire  ;  the  sky 

Hung  over  them  with  answering  ecstasy  ; 

Through  its  pale  veins  of  cloud,  like  blushing  blood. 

From  south  to  north  the  swift  pulsation  glowed 

With  infinite  emotion  ;  but  it  ceased 

In  the  far  chambers  of  the  dewy  west. 
There  the  weak  day  stood  withering,  like  a  spirit 

Which,  in  its  dim  departure,  turns  to  bless 
Their  sorrow  whom  it  leaveth,  to  inherit 
Their  lonely  lot  of  night  and  nothingness. 

Keen  in  its  edge,  against  the  farthest  light, 
The  cold  calm  earth  its  black  horizon  lifted, 

Though  a  faint  vapour,  which  the  winds  had  sifted 

Like  thin  sea-sand,  in  undulations  white 
And  multitudinous,  veiled  the  lower  stars. 
And  over  this  there  hung  successive  bars 
Of  crimson  mist,  which  had  no  visible  ending 

But  in  the  eastern  gloom  ;  voiceless  and  still, 
Illimitable  in  their  arched  extending, 

They  kept  their  dwelling  place  in  heaven  ;  the  chill 
Of  the  passing  night-wind  stirred  them  not ;  the  ascending 

Of  the  keen  summer  moon  was  marked  by  them 
Into  successive  steps  ;  the  plenitude 
Of  pensive  light  was  kindled  and  subdued 


234  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Alternate,  as  her  crescent  keel  did  stem 
Those  waves  of  currentless  cloud,  the  diadem 

Of  her  companion  planet  near  her,  shed 
Keen  quenchless  splendour  down  the  drowsy  air ; 

Glowed  as  she  glowed,  and  followed  where  she  led, 
High  up  the  hill  of  the  night  heaven,  where 
Thin  threads  of  darkness,  braided  like  black  hair, 

Were  in  long  trembling  tresses  interwoven, 
The  soft  blue  eyes  of  the  superior  deep 
Looked  through  them,  with  the  glance  of  those  who  cannot  weep 

For  sorrow.     Here  and  there  the  veil  was  cloven, 
By  crossing  of  faint  winds,  whose  wings  did  keep 
Such  cadence  as  the  breath  of  dreamless  sleep 
Among  the  stars,  and  soothed  with  strange  delight 
The  vain  vacuity  of  the  Infinite. 

vn. 

Stiff  as  stone,  and  still  as  death, 

Stood  the  knight  like  one  amazed, 
And  dropped  his  rein,  and  held  his  breath, 

So  anxiously  he  gazed. 
Oh  !  well  might  such  a  scene  and  sun 

Surprise  the  sudden  sight, 
And  yet  his  mien  was  more  of  one 

In  dread  than  in  delight. 
His  glance  was  not  on  heaven  or  hill, 
On  cloud  or  lightning,  swift  or  still, 

On  azure  earth  or  orient  air ; 
But  long  his  fixed  look  did  lie 
On  one  bright  line  of  western  sky,— • 

What  saw  he  there  ? 

VIET. 

On  the  brow  of  a  lordly  line 

Of  chasm-divided  crag,  there  stood 

The  walls  of  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine. 
Above  the  undulating  wood 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  235 

Broad  basalt  bulwarks,  stern  and  stiff, 
Ribbed,  like  black  bones,  the  grisly  cliff. 
On  the  torn  summit  stretched  away 
The  convent  walls,  tall,  old,  and  grey  ; 
So  strong  their  ancient  size  did  seem, 

So  stern  their  mountain  seat, 
Well  might  the  passing  pilgrim  deem 

Such  desperate  dwelling-place  more  meet 
For  soldier  true,  or  baron  bold, 
For  army's  guard  or  bandit's  hold, 
Than  for  the  rest,  deep,  calm,  and  cold, 
Of  those  whose  tale  of  troublous  life  is  told. 


EL 

The  topmost  tower  rose,  narrow  and  tall, 

O'er  the  broad  mass  of  crag  and  wall ; 

Against  the  streak  of  western  light 

It  raised  its  solitary  height. 

Just  above,  nor  far  aloof, 

From  the  cross  upon  its  roof, 

Sat  a  silver  star. 

The  low  clouds  drifting  fast  and  far, 

Gave,  by  their  own  mocking  loss, 

Motion  to  the  star  and  cross. 

Even  the  black  tower  was  stirred  below 

To  join  the  dim,  mysterious  march, 
The  march  so  strangely  slow. 

Near  its  top  an  opening  arch 
Let  through  a  passage  of  pale  sky 
Enclosed  with  stern  captivity  ; 

And  in  its  hollow  height  there  hung, 
From  a  black  bar,  a  brazen  bell : 
Its  hugeness  was  traced  clear  and  well 

The  slanting  rays  among. 

Ever  and  anon  it  swung 
Halfway  round  its  whirling  wheel ; 
Back  again,  with  rocking  reel. 


236  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Lazily  its  length  was  flung, 

Till  brazen  lip  and  beating  tongue, 
Met  once,  wz'th  unrepeated  peal, 
Then  paused  ; — until  the  winds  could  feel 

The  weight  of  the  wide  sound  that  clung 
To  their  inmost  spirit,  like  the  appeal 

Of  startling  memories,  strangely  strung, 
That  point  to  pain,  and  yet  conceal 

Again  with  single  sway  it  rung, 
And  the  black  tower  beneath  could  feel 
The  undulating  tremor  steal 

Through  its  old  stones,  with  long  shiver, 

The  wild  woods  felt  it  creep  and  quiver 
Through  their  thick  leaves  and  hushed  air, 
As  fear  creeps  through  a  murderer's  hair. 

And  the  grey  reeds  beside  the  river, 
In  the  moonlight  meek  and  mild, 
Moved  like  spears  when  war  is  wild. 


And  still  the  knight  like  statue  stood, 
In  the  arched  opening  of  the  wood. 
Slowly  still  the  brazen  bell 
Marked  its  modulated  knell ; 
Heavily,  heavily,  one  by  one, 
The  dull  strokes  gave  their  thunder  tone. 
So  long  the  pause  between  was  led, 
Ere  one  rose  the  last  was  dead — 
Dead  and  lost  by  hollow  and  hilL 
Again,  again,  it  gathered  still ; 
Ye  who  hear,  peasant  or  peer, 
By  all  you  hope  and  all  you  fear, 

Lowly  now  be  heart  and 
Meekly  be  your  orison  said 

For  the  body  in  its  agony, 
And  the  spirit  in  its  dread. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  237 

XL 

Beverent  as  a  cowled  monk 

The  knight  before  the  cross  had  sunk  ; 

Just  as  he  bowed  his  helmless  head, 

Twice  the  bell  struck  faint  and  dead, 

And  ceased.     Hill,  valley,  and  winding  shore 

The  rising  roll  received  no  more. 

His  lips  were  weak,  his  words  were  low, 

A  paleness  came  across  his  brow  ; 

He  started  to  his  feet,  in  fear 

Of  something  that  he  seemed  to  hear. 

Was  it  the  west  wind  that  did  feign 

Articulation  strange  and  vain  ? 

Vainly  with  thine  ear  thou  warrest : 

Lo  !  it  comes,  it  comes  again  ! 

Through  the  dimly  woven  forest 

Comes  the  cry  of  one  in  pain — 
"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 

Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain." 


PART  THIRD. 


On  grey  Amboise's  rocks  and  keep 
The  early  shades  of  evening  sleep, 
And  veils  of  mist,  white-folded,  fall 
Round  his  long  range  of  iron  wall ; 
O'er  the  last  line  of  withering  light 
The  quick  bats  cut  with  angled  flight, 
And  the  low  breathing  fawns  that  rest 

The  twilight  forest  through, 
Each  on  his  starry  flank  and  stainless  breast 

Can  feel  the  coolness  of  the  dew 
Soothing  his  sleep  with  heavenly  weight : 
Who  are  these  who  tread  so  late 
Beyond  Amboise's  castle  gate, 


238  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

And  seek  the  garden  shade  ? 

The  flowers  are  closed,  the  paths  are  dark, 

Their  marble  guards  look  stern  and  stark, 
The  birds  are  still,  the  leaves  are  stayed, 
On  windless  bough,  and  sunless  glade. 

Ah  !  who  are  these  that  walk  so  late, 

Beyond  Amboise's  castle  gate  ? 

n. 

Steep  down  the  river's  margin  sink 

The  gardens  of  Amboise, 
And  all  their  inmost  thickets  drink 

The  wide,  low  water-voice. 
By  many  a  bank  whose  blossoms  shrink 

Amidst  sweet  herbage  young  and  cold, 
Through  many  an  arch  and  avenue, 
That  noontide  roofs  with  checkered  blue, 

And  paves  with  fluctuating  gold, 
Pierced  by  a  thousand  paths  that  guide 
Grey  echo-haunted  rocks  beside, 
And  into  caves  of  cool  recess, 
"Which  ever-falling  fountains  dress 
"With  emerald  veils,  dashed  deep  in  dew, 
And  through  dim  thickets  that  subdue 

The  crimson  light  of  flowers  afar, 
As  sweet  rain  doth  the  sunset,  decked 

Themselves  with  many  a  living  star, 
"Which  music  winged  bees  detect 
By  the  white  rays  and  ceaseless  odor  shed 
Over  the  scattered  leaves  that  every  day  lays  dead. 


m. 

But  who  are  these  that  pass  so  late 
Beneath  Amboise's  echoing  gate, 
And  seek  the  sweet  path,  poplar-shaded, 
By  breeze  and  moonbeam  uninvaded  ? 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  239 

They  are  two  forms,  that  move  like  one, 

Each  to  the  music  of  the  other's  lips, 
The  cold  night  thrilling  with  the  tone 

Of  their  low  words — the  grey  eclipse, 
Cast  from  the  tangled  boughs  above. 
Their  dark  eyes  penetrate  with  love  ; 

Two  forms,  one  crested,  calm,  and  proud, 
Yet  with  bowed  head,  and  gentle  ear  inclining 

To  her  who  moves  as  in  a  sable  cloud 
Of  her  own  waving  hair — the  star-flowers  shining 

Through  its  soft  waves,  like  planets  when  they  keep 

Reflected  watch  beneath  the  sunless  deep. 

IV. 

Her  brow  is  pure  and  pale,  her  eyes 

Deep  as  the  unfathomed  sky, 
Her  lips,  from  which  the  sweet  words  rise 
Like  flames  from  incensed  sacrifice, 

Quiver  with  untold  thoughts,  that  lie 

Burning  beneath  their  crimson  glow, 
As  mute  and  deathless  lightnings  sleep 
At  sunset,  where  the  dyes  are  deep 

On  Rosa's  purple  snow  ; 
She  moves  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
With  little  in  that  form  of  light 
To  set  the  seal  of  mortal  birth, 
Or  own  her  earthy — of  the  earth, 
Unless  it  be  one  strange  quick  trace 
That  checks  the  glory  of  her  face, 
A  wayward  meaning,  dimly  shed, 
A  shadow,  scarcely  felt,  ere  fled  ; 
A  spot  upon  the  brow,  a  spark 
Under  those  eyes  subdued  and  dark ; 
A  low  short  discord  in  the  tone 
Of  music  round  her  being  thrown  ; 
A  mystery  more  conceived  than  seen  ; 
A  wildness  of  the  word  and  mien ; 


240  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

The  sign  of  wilder  work  within, 
Which  may  be  sorrow — must  be  sin. 


v. 

Slowly  they  moved  that  knight  and  dame, 
Where  hanging  thickets  quench  and  tame 

The  river's  flash  and  cry  ; 
Mellowed  among  the  leafage  came 
Its  thunder  voice — its  flakes  of  flame 

Drifted  undisturbing  by, 

Sunk  to  a  twilight  and  a  sigh. 
Their  path  was  o'er  the  entangled  rest 

Of  dark  night  flowers  that  underneath 
Their  feet  as  their  dim  bells  were  pressed, 

Sent  up  warm  pulses  of  soft  breath. 
Banged  in  sepulchral  ranks  above, 
Grey  spires  of  shadowy  cypress  clove, 
With  many  a  shaft  of  sacred  gloom, 
The  evening  heaven's  mysterious  dome  ; 
Slowly  above  their  columns  keen 
Rolled,  on  its  path  that  starred  serene ; 
A  thousand  fountains  soundless  flow 
With  imaged  azure  moved  below ; 
And  through  the  grove  and  o'er  the  tide 
Pale  forms  appeared  to  watch,  to  glide, 
O'er  whose  faint  limbs  the  evening  sky 
Had  cast  like  life  its  crimson  dye  ; 
Was  it  not  life — so  bright — so  weak — 
That  flushed  the  bloodless  brow  and  cheek, 
And  bade  the  lips  of  wreathed  stone 
Kindle  to  all  but  breath  and  tone  ? 
It  moved — it  heaved — that  stainless  breast ! 
Ah  !  what  can  break  such  marble  rest  ? 
It  was  a  shade  that  passed — a  shade, 
It  was  not  bird  nor  bough  that  made, 
Nor  dancing  leaf,  nor  falling  fruit, 

For  where  it  moves — that  shadow,  grey  and  chill, 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  241 

The  birds  are  lulled — the  leaves  are  mute — 
The  air  is  cold  and  still. 

VI. 

Slowly  they  moved,  that  dame  and  knight, 
As  one  by  one  the  stars  grew  bright ; 
Fondly  they  moved — they  did  not  mark 
They  had  a  follower  strange  and  dark. 
Just  where  the  leaves  their  feet  disturbed 

Sunk  from  their  whispering  tune, 
(It  seemed  beneath  a  fear  that  curbed 

Their  motion  very  soon), 
A  shadow  fell  upon  them,  cast 
By  a  less  visible  form  that  passed 

Between  them  and  the  moon. 
"Was  it  a  fountain's  f ailing  shiver  ? 

It  moveth  on — it  will  not  stay — 
"Was  it  a  mist  wreath  of  the  river  ? 

The  mist  hath  melted  all  away, 
And  the  risen  moon  is  full  and  clear, 
And  the  moving  shadow  is  marked  and  near. 
See !  where  the  dead  leaves  felt  it  pass, 
There  are  footsteps  left  on  the  bended  grass — 
Footsteps  as  of  an  armed  heel, 
Heavy  with  links  of  burning  steel. 

vn. 

Fondly  they  moved,  that  dame  and  knight, 

By  the  gliding  river's  billow  light. 

Their  lips  were  mute,  their  hands  were  given, 

Their  hearts  did  hardly  stir ; 
The  maid  had  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven, 

But  his  were  fallen  on  her. 
They  did  not  heed,  they  did  not  fear 
That  follower  strange  that  trod  so  near, 
An  armed  form  whose  cloudy  mail 
Flashed  as  it  moved  with  radiance  pale  ; 


242  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

So  gleams  the  moonlit  torrent  through 

It's  glacier's  deep  transparent  blue  ; 

Quivering  and  keen  its  steps  of  pride 

Shook  the  sheathed  lightning  at  its  side, 

And  waved  its  dark  and  drifted  plume, 

Like  fires  that  haunt  the  unholy  tomb 

Where  cursed  with  crime  the  mouldering  dead, 

Lie  restless  in  their  robes  of  lead. 

What  eye  shall  seek,  what  soul  can  trace 

The  deep  death-horror  of  its  face  ? 

The  trackless,  livid  smile  that  played 

Beneath  the  casque's  concealing  shade  ; 

The  angered  eye's  unfathomed  glare, 

(So  sleep  the  fountains  of  despair, 

Beneath  the  soul  whose  sins  unseal 

The  wells  of  all  it  fears  to  feel.) 

The  sunk,  unseen,  all-seeing  gloom, 

Scarred  with  the  ravage  of  the  tomb, 

The  passions  that  made  life  their  prey, 

Fixed  on  the  feature's  last  decay, 

The  pangs  that  made  the  human  heart  their  slare, 

Frozen  on  the  changeless  aspect  of  the  grave. 

VHI. 

And  still  it  f ollowed  where  they  went, 

That  unregarding  pair  ; 
It  kept  on  them  its  eyes  intent, 

And  from  their  glance  the  sickened  air 
Shrank,  as  if  tortured.     Slow,  how  slow, 

The  knight  and  lady  trod  ; 
You  had  heard  their  hearts  beat  just  as  loud 

As  their  footsteps  on  the  sod. 
They  paused  at  length  in  a  leafless  place, 
Where  the  moonlight  shone  on  the  maiden's  face ; 
Still  as  an  image  of  stone  she  stood, 

Though  the  heave  of  her  breath,  and  the  beat  of  her  blood 
Murmured  and  mantled  to  and  fro, 


BROKEN  CHAIN.  % 

Like  the  billows  that  heave  on  a  hill  of  snow, 
When  the  midnight  winds  are  short  and  low. 
The  words  of  her  lover  came  burning  and  deep, 

And  his  hand  was  raised  to  the  holy  sky  ; 
Can  the  lamps  of  the  universe  bear  or  keep, 

False  witness  or  record  on  high  ? 
He  starts  to  his  feet  from  the  spot  where  he  knelt, 
What  voice  hath  he  heard,  what  fear  hath  he  felt  ? 
His  lips  in  their  silence  are  bloodless  and  dry, 
And  the  love-light  fails  from  his  glazed  eye. 

IX. 

Well  might  he  quail,  for  full  displayed 
Before  him  rose  that  dreadful  shade, 
And  o'er  his  mute  and  trembling  trance 
Waved  its  pale  crest  and  quivering  lance ; 
And  traced,  with  pangs  of  sudden  pain, 
The  form  of  words  upon  his  brain  ; 
"  Thy  vows  are  deep,  but  still  thou  bears't  the  chain, 
Cast  on  thee  by  a  deeper — vowed  in  vain  ; 
Thy  love  is  fair,  but  fairer  forms  are  laid, 
Cold  and  forgotten,  in  the  cypress  shade  ; 
Thy  arm  is  strong,  but  arms  of  stronger  trust, 
Eepose  unnerved,  undreaded  in  the  dust ; 
Around  thy  lance  shall  bend  the  living  brave, 
Then  arm  thee  for  the  challenge  of  the  grave." 


The  sound  had  ceased,  the  shape  had  passed  away, 
Silent  the  air  and  pure  the  planet's  ray. 
They  stood  beneath  the  lonely  breathing  night, 
The  lovely  lady  and  the  lofty  knight ; 
He  moved  in  shuddering  silence  by  her  side, 
Or  wild  and  wandering  to  her  words  replied, 
Shunning  her  anxious  eyes  on  his  that  bent : 
"  Thou  didst  not  see  it,  'twas  to  me  'twas  sent. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

To  me, — but  why  to  me  ? — I  knew  it  not, 

It  was  no  dream,  it  stood  upon  the  spot, 

Where  " — Then  with  lighter  tone  and  bitter  smile, 

"  Nothing,  beloved, — a  pang  that  did  beguile 
My  spirit  of  its  strength,  a  dream,  a  thought, 
A  fancy  of  the  night."     And  though  she  sought 
More  reason  of  his  dread,  he  heard  her  not, 
For,  mingling  with  those  words  of  phantom  fear, 
There  was  another  echo  in  his  ear, 
An  under  murmur  deep  and  clear, 
The  fault  low  sob  of  one  in  pain, 

"  May  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 
Bind  thee  with  its  broken  chain." 


PART  FOURTH. 


Tis  morn ! — in  clustered  rays  increased — 
Exulting  rays,  that  deeply  drink 

The  starlight  of  the  East, 

And  strew  with  crocus  dyes  the  brink 
Of  those  blue  streams  that  pause  and  sink 

Far  underneath  their  heavenly  strand — 

Soft  capes  of  vapour,  ribbed  like  sand. 

Along  the  Loire  white  sails  are  flashing, 

Through  stars  of  spray  their  dark  oars  dashing  ; 

The  rocks  are  reddening  one  by  one, 

The  purple  sandbanks  flushed  with  sun, 

And  crowned  with  fire  on  crags  and  keep, 

Amboise !  above  thy  lifted  steep, 

Far  lightning  o'er  the  subject  vale, 

Blaze  thy  broad  range  of  ramparts  pale  ! 

Through  distance  azure  as  the  sky, 

That  vale  sends  up  its  morning  cry. 

From  countless  leaves,  that  shaking  shade 

Its  tangled  paths  of  pillared  glade, 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

And  ceaseless  fan,  with  quivering  cool, 
Each  gentle  stream  and  slumbrous  pool, 
That  catch  the  leaf-song  as  they  flow, 
In  tinkling  echo  pure  and  low, 
Clear,  deep,  and  moving,  as  the  night, 
And  starred  with  orbs  of  lily  light 
Nor  are  they  leaves  alone  that  sing, 

Nor  waves  alone  that  flow ; 
The  leaves  are  lifted  on  the  wing 

Of  voices  from  below  ; 
The  waters  keep,  with  shade  subdued, 
The  image  of  a  multitude — 

A  merry  crowd  promiscuous  met, 
Of  every  age  and  heart  united — 

Grey  hairs  with  golden  twined,  and  yet 
With  equal  mien  and  eyes  delighted, 
With  thoughts  that  mix,  and  hands  that  lock, 
Behold  they  tread,  with  hurrying  feet, 
Along  the  thousand  paths  that  meet 

Beneath  Amboise's  rock ; 
For  there  upon  the  meadows  wide, 
That  couch  along  the  river-side, 

Are  pitched  a  snowy  flock 
Of  warrior  tents,  like  clouds  that  rest, 
Through  champaigns  of  the  quiet  west, 
When,  far  in  distance,  stretched  serene, 
The  evening  sky  lies  calm  and  green. 
Amboise's  lord  must  bear  to-day 
His  love-gage  through  the  rival  fray ; 
Through  all  the  coasts  of  fiery  France 

His  challenge  shook  the  air, 
That  none  could  break  so  true  a  lance, 

Nor  for  a  dame  so  fair. 

n. 

The  lists  are  circled  round  with  shields^ 

Like  lily-leaves  that  lie 
On  forest  pools  in  clustered  fields 


94-; 


24:6  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Of  countless  company. 
But  every  buckler's  bosses  black 
Dash  the  full  beams  of  morning  back, 
In  orbed  wave  of  welded  lines, 
With  mingled  blaze  of  crimson  signs, 

And  light  of  lineage  high  : 
As  sounds  that  gush  when  thoughts  are  strong, 

But  words  are  weak  with  tears, 
Awoke,  above  the  warrior  throng, 

The  wind  among  the  spears ; 
Afar  in  hollow  surge  they  shook, 
As  reeds  along  some  summer  brook, 
Glancing  beneath  the  July  moon, 
All  bowed  and  touched  in  pleasant  tune  ; 
Their  steely  lightning  passed  and  played 
Alternate  with  the  cloudy  shade 
Of  crested  casques,  and  flying  flakes 
Of  horse-manes,  twined  like  sable  snakes, 
And  misty  plumes  in  darkness  drifted, 
And  charged  banners  broadly  lifted, 
Purpling  the  air  with  storm-tints  cast 
Down  through  their  undulation  vast, 
"Wide  the  billowy  army  strewing, 

Like  to  flags  of  victory 
From  some  wretched  Armada's  ruin, 

Left  to  robe  the  sea. 

m. 

As  the  morning  star  new  risen 

In  a  circle  of  calm  sky, 
Where  the  white  clouds  stand  to  listen 

For  the  sphered  melody 
Of  her  planetary  path, 
And  her  soft  rays  pierce  the  wrath 
Of  the  night  storms  stretched  below, 
Till  they  sink  like  wreaths  of  snow, 
(Lighting  heaven  with  their  decay) 

Into  sudden  silentness — 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  247 

Throned  above  the  stormy  stress 
Of  that  knightly  host's  array, 

Goddess-formed,  as  one  whom  mortals 
Need  but  gaze  on  to  obey, 

Distant  seen,  as  through  the  portals 
Of  some  temple  gray  ; 

The  glory  of  a  marble  dream, 
Kindling  the  eyes  that  gaze,  the  lips  that  pray— 

One  gentle  lady  sat,  retiring  but  supreme. 

rv. 

Upon  her  brow  there  was  no  crown, 

Upon  her  robe  no  gem  ; 
Yet  few  were  there  who  would  not  own 

Her  queen  of  earth,  and  them, 
Because  that  brow  was  crowned  with  light 

As  with  a  diadem, 

And  her  quick  thoughts,  as  they  did  rise,. 
Were  in  the  deep  change  of  her  eyes, 

Traced  one  by  one,  as  stars  that  start 
Out  of  the  orbed  peace  of  night, 

Still  drooping  as  they  dart, 
And  her  sweet  limbs  shone  heavenly  bright, 
Following  with  undulation  white, 

The  heaving  of  her  heart. 

High  she  sat,  and  all  apart, 
Meek  of  mien,  with  eyes  declined, 
Less  like  one  of  mortal  mind, 
Than  some  changeless  spirit  shrined 

In  the  memories  of  men, 
Whom  the  passions  of  its  kind 

Cannot  hurt  nor  move  again. 

v. 

High  she  sat  in  meekness  shaming, 

All  of  best  and  brightest  there, 
Till  the  herald's  voice,  proclaiming 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Her  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

Bang  along  the  morning  air ; 
And  then  she  started,  and  that  shade, 
Which  in  the  moonlit  garden  glade 

Had  marked  her  with  its  mortal  stain, 

Did  pass  upon  her  face  again, 
And  in  her  eye  a  sudden  flash 
Came  and  was  gone  ;  but  it  were  rash 

To  say  if  it  were  pride  or  pain  ; 
And  on  her  lips  a  smile,  scarce  worn, 
Less,  as  it  seemed,  of  joy  than  scorn, 
Was  with  a  strange  quick  quivering  mixed, 
Which  passed  away,  and  left  them  fixed 
In  calm,  persisting,  colourless, 
Perchance  too  perfect  to  be  peace. 
A  moment  more,  and  still  serene 
Returned,  yet  changed — her  mood  and  mien ; 
What  eye  that  traceless  change  could  tell, 
Slight,  transient, — but  unspeakable  ! 
She  sat,  divine  of  soul  and  brow  ; 
It  passed, — and  all  is  human  now. 

VL 

The  multitude,  with  loud  acclaim, 
Caught  up  the  lovely  lady's  name  ; 
Thrice  round  the  lists  arose  the  cry  ; 
But  when  it  sunk,  and  all  the  sky 
Grew  doubly  silent  by  its  loss, 
A  slow  strange  murmur  came  across 
The  waves  of  the  reposing  air, 
A  deep,  soft  voice  that  everywhere 
Arose  at  once,  so  lowly  clear, 
That  each  seemed  in  himself  to  hear 
Alone,  and  fixed  with  sweet  surprise, 
Did  ask  around  him,  with  his  eyes, 
If  'twere  not  some  dream-music  dim 
And  false,  that  only  rose  for  him. 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 
vn. 

"  Oh,  lady  Queen,— Oh,  lady  Queen ! 

Fairest  of  all  who  tread 
The  soft  earth  carpet  green, 

Or  breathe  the  blessings  shed 

By  the  stars  and  tempest  free  ; 
Know  thou,  oh,  lady  Queen, 
Earth  hath  borne,  sun  hath  seen, 

Fairer  than  thee. 
The  flush  of  beauty  burneth 

In  the  palaces  of  earth, 
But  thy  lifted  spirit  scorneth 

All  match  of  mortal  birth : 
And  the  nymph  of  the  hill, 

And  the  naiad  of  the  sea, 
Were  of  beauty  quenched  and  chill, 

Beside  thee ! 
Where  the  grey  cypress  shadows 

Move  onward  with  the  moon, 
Bound  the  low-mounded  meadows, 

And  the  grave-stones,  whitely  hewn, 
Gleam  like  camp-fires  through  the  night* 

There,  in  silence  of  long  swoon, 

In  the  horror  of  decay  ; 
With  the  worm  for  their  delight, 

And  the  shroud  for  their  array, 
With  the  garland  on  their  brow, 

And  the  black  cross  by  their  side, 
With  the  darkness  for  their  beauty, 

And  the  dust  for  their  pride, 
With  the  smile  of  baffled  pain 

On  the  cold  lips  half  apart, 
With  the  dimness  on  the  brain, 

And  the  peace  upon  the  heart ; 
Even  sunk  in  solemn  shade, 

Underneath  the  cypress  tree, 
Lady  Queen,  there  are  laid 

Fairer  than  thee  I " 


250  THE  BROKEN  CHA1&. 

vm. 

It  passed  away,  that  melodie, 
But  none  the  minstrel  there  could  see  ; 
The  lady  sat  still  calm  of  thought, 
Save  that  there  rose  a  narrow  spot 

Of  crimson  on  her  cheek  ; 
But  then,  the  words  were  far  and  weak, 
Perchance  she  heard  them  not. 
The  crowd  still  listening,  feared  to  speak, 
And  only  mixed  in  sympathy 
Of  pressing  hand  and  wondering  eye, 

And  left  the  lists  all  hushed  and  mute, 
For  every  wind  of  heaven  had  sunk 

To  that  aerial  lute. 

The  ponderous  banners,  closed  and  shrunk, 
Down  from  their  listless  lances  hung, 
The  windless  plumes  were  feebly  flung. 
"With  lifted  foot,  the  listening  steed, 

Did  scarcely  fret  the  fern, 
And  the  challenger  on  his  charmed  steed 

Sat  statue-like  and  stern, 
Till  mixed  with  martial  trumpet-strain, 
The  herald's  voice  arose  again, 
Proclaiming  that  Amboise's  lord 
Dared  by  the  trial  of  the  sword, 
The  bravest  knights  of  France,  to  prove 
Their  fairer  dame  or  truer  love, — 
And  ere  the  brazen  blast  had  died, 
That  strange  sweet-singing  voice  replied, 
So  wild  that  every  heart  did  keep 
Its  pulse  to  time  the  cadence  deep  : 

IX. 

"Where  the  purple  swords  are  swiftest, 
And  the  rage  of  death  unreigned, 

Lord  of  battle,  though  thou  liftest 
Crest  unstooped,  and  shield  unstained, 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  251 

Vain  before  thy  footsteps  fail, 
Useless  spear  and  rended  mail, 
Shuddering  from  thy  glance  and  blow, 
Earth's  best  armies  sink  like  snow  ; 
Know  thou  this  ;  unmatched,  unmet, 
Might  hath  children  mightier  yet. 

"  The  chapel  vaults  are  deadly  damp, 

Their  air  is  breathless  all, 
The  downy  bats  they  clasp  and  cramp 

Their  cold  wings  to  the  wall ; 
The  bright-eyed  eft,  from  cranny  and  cleft, 

Doth  noiselessly  pursue 
The  twining  light  of  the  death-worms  white, 

In  the  pools  of  the  earth  dew  ; 
The  downy  bat, — the  death-worm  white, 

And  the  eft  with  its  sable  coil — 
They  are  company  good  for  a  sworded  knight, 

In  his  rest  from  the  battle  toil ; 
The  sworded  knight  is  sunk  in  rest, 

With  the  cross-hilt  in  his  hand  ; 
But  his  arms  are  folded  o'er  his  breast 

As  weak  as  ropes  of  sand. 
His  eyes  are  dark,  his  sword  of  wrath 

Is  impotent  and  dim  ; 
Dark  lord,  in  this  thy  victor  path, 

Eemember  him." 


The  sounds  sunk  deeply, — and  were  gone, 

And  for  a  time  the  quiet  crowd 
Hung  on  the  long  departing  tone, 

Of  wailing  in  the  morning  cloud, 
In  spirit  wondering  and  beguiled  ; 

Then  turned  with  steadfast  gaze  to  learn 
What  recked  he,  of  such  warning  wild — 

Amboise's  champion  stern, 


250  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

But  little  to  their  sight  betrayed 
The  visor  bars  and  plumage  shade ; 
The  nearest  thought  he  smiled  ; 
Yet  more  in  bitterness  than  mirth, 
And  held  his  eyes  upon  the  earth 
With  thoughtful  gaze,  half  sad,  half  keen, 
As  they  would  seek  beneath  the  screen 
Of  living  turf  and  golden  bloom, 
The  secrets  of  its  under  tomb. 


XI. 

A  moment  more,  with  burning  look, 
High  in  the  air  his  plume  he  shook, 
And  waved  his  lance  as  in  disdain, 
And  struck  his  charger  with  the  rein, 
And  loosed  the  sword-hilt  to  his  grasp, 
And  closed  the  visor's  grisly  clasp, 
And  all  expectant  sate  and  still ; 
The  herald  blew  his  summons  shrill, 
Keen  answer  rose  from  list  and  tent, 
For  France  had  there  her  bravest  sent, 
With  hearts  of  steel,  and  eyes  of  flame, 
Full  armed  the  knightly  concourse  came  ; 
They  came  like  storms  of  heaven  set  free, 
They  came  like  surges  of  the  sea, 

Resistless,  dark  and  dense, 
Like  surges  on  a  sable  rock, 
They  fell  with  their  own  fiery  shock, 

Dashed  into  impotence. 
O'er  each  encounter's  rush  and  gloom, 
Like  meteor  rose  Amboise's  plume, 
As  stubble  to  his  calm  career  ; 
Crashed  from  his  breast  the  splintered  spear, 
Before  his  charge  the  war-horse  reeled, 
And  bowed  the  helm,  and  sunk  the  shield, 
And  checked  the  heart,  and  failed  the  arm  ; 
And  still  the  herald's  loud  alarm 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Disturbed  the  short  delay — 
On,  chevaliers !  for  fame,  for  love, — 
For  these  dark  eyes  that  burn  above 

The  field  of  your  affray  ! 

xn. 

Six  knights  had  fallen,  the  last  in  death, — 

Deeply  the  challenger  drew  his  breath. 

The  field  was  hushed, — the  wind  that  rocked 

His  standard  staff  grew  light  and  low. 
A  seventh  came  not.     He  unlocked 

His  visor  clasp,  and  raised  his  brow 
To  catch  its  coolness.     Marvel  not 
If  it  were  pale  with  weariness, 
For  fast  that  day  his  hand  had  wrought 

Its  warrior  work  of  victory  ; 
Yet,  one  who  loved  him  might  have  thought 

There  was  a  trouble  in  his  eye, 
And  that  it  turned  in  some  distress 

Unto  the  quiet  sky. 
Indeed  that  sky  was  strangely  still, 
And  through  the  air  unwonted  chill 

Hung  on  the  heat  of  noon  ; 
Men  spoke  in  whispers,  and  their  words 
Came  brokenly,  as  if  the  chords 

Of  their  hearts  were  out  of  tune  ; 
And  deeper  still,  and  yet  more  deep 
The  coldness  of  that  heavy  sleep 
Came  on  the  lulled  air.     And  men  saw 
In  every  glance,  an  answering  awe 
Meeting  their  own  with  doubtful  change 
Of  expectation  wild  and  strange. 
Dread  marvel  was  it  thus  to  feel 
The  echoing  earth,  the  trumpet-peal, 
The  thundering  hoof,  the  crashing  steel, 

Cease  to  a  pause  so  dead, 
They  heard  the  aspens  moaning  shiver, 
And  the  low  tinkling  of  the  river 


254  TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Upon  its  pebble  bed. 

The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud, 
And  the  light  upon  his  standard  proud 

Grew  indistinct  and  dun- ; 
The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud, 
And  the  shadow  of  a  narrow  cloud 

Came  suddenly  o'er  the  sun. 

xrrr. 

A  narrow  cloud  of  outline  quaint, 

Much  like  a  human  hand  ; 
And  after  it,  with  following  faint, 

Came  up  a  dull  grey  lengthening  band 

Of  small  cloud  billows,  like  sea  sand, 
And  then  out  of  the  gaps  of  blue, 
Left  moveless  in  the  sky,  there  grew 
Long  snaky  knots  of  sable  mist, 
"Which  counter  winds  did  vex  and  twist, 
Knitted  and  loosed,  and  tossed  and  tore, 
Like  passive  weeds  on  that  sandy  shore  ; 
And  these  seemed  with  their  touch  to  infect 
The  sweet  white  upper  clouds,  and  checked 
Their  pacing  on  the  heavenly  floor, 

And  quenched  the  light  which  was  to  them 
As  blood  and  life,  singing  the  while 

A  fitful  requiem, 
Until  the  hues  of  each  cloud  isle 

Sank  into  one  vast  veil  of  dread, 

Coping  the  heaven  as  if  with  lead, 
With  drag'd  pale  edges  here  and  there, 
Through  which  the  noon's  transparent  glare 

Fell  with  a  dusky  red. 
And  all  the  summer  voices  sank 

To  let  that  darkness  pass  ; 
The  weeds  were  quiet  on  the  bank, 

The  cricket  in  the  grass  ; 
The  merry  birds  the  buzzing  flies, 


THE  BROKEN   CHAIN.  255 

The  leaves  of  many  lips, 
Did  make  their  songs  a  sacrifice 
Unto  the  noon  eclipse. 

xrv. 

The  challenger's  trump  rang  long  and  loud — 

Hark  !  as  its  notes  decay  ! 
Was  it  out  of  the  earth — or  up  in  the  cloud  ? — 

Or  an  echo  far  away  ? 
Soft  it  came  and  none  knew  whence — 
Deep,  melodious  and  intense, 

So  lightly  breathed,  so  wildly  blown, 
Distant  it  seemed — yet  everywhere 
Possessing  all  the  infinite  air — 

One  quivering  trumpet  tone  ! 
With  slow  increase  of  gathering  sway, 
Louder  along  the  wind  it  lay  ; 
It  shook  the  woods,  it  pressed  the  wave, 
The  guarding  rocks  through  chasm  and  cave 

Roared  in  their  fierce  reply. 
It  rose,  and  o'er  the  lists  at  length 
Crashed  into  full  tempestuous  strength, 
Shook  through  its  storm-tried  turrets  high 

Amboise's  mountain  home, 
And  the  broad  thunder- vaulted  sky 

Clanged  like  a  brazen  dome. 

xv. 

Unchanged,  unchilled  in  heart  and  eye  ; 
The  challenger  heard  that  dread  reply  ; 
His  head  was  bowed  upon  his  breast, 
And  on  the  darkness  in  the  west 
His  glance  dwelt  patiently  ; 
Out  of  that  western  gloom  there  came 
A  small  white  vapour,  shaped  like  flame, 
Unscattering,  and  on  constant  wing  ; 
Rode  lonely,  like  a  living  thing, 


256  TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Upon  its  stormy  path  ;  it  grew, 
And  gathered  as  it  onward  drew — 
It  paused  above  the  lists,  a  roof 
Inwoven  with  a  lightning  woof 
Of  undulating  fire,  whose  trace, 
Like  corpse-fire  on  a  human  face, 
Was  mixed  of  light  and  death  ;  it  sank 
Slowly  ;  the  wild  war-horses  shrank 

Tame  from  the  nearing  flash  ;  their  eyes 
Glared  the  blue  terror  back,  it  shone 
On  the  broad  spears,  like  wavering  wan 

Of  unaccepted  sacrifice. 
Down  to  the  earth  the  smoke-cloud  rolled — 
Pale  shadowed  through  sulphurous  fold, 
Banner  and  armor,  spear  and  plume 
Gleamed  like  a  vision  of  the  tomb. 
One  form  alone  was  all  of  gloom — 
In  deep  and  dusky  arms  arrayed, 
Changeless  alike  through  flash  and  shade, 
Sudden  within  the  barrier  gate 
Behold,  the  Seventh  champion  sate  ! 
He  waved  his  hand — he  stooped  his  lance — 
The  challenger  started  from  his  trance  ; 

He  plunged  his  spur — he  loosed  his  rein — 
A  flash — a  groan — a  woman's  cry — 
And  up  to  the  receiving  sky 

The  white  cloud  rose  again  ! 

XVL 

The  white  cloud  rose — the  white  cloud  fled—- 
The peace  of  heaven  returned  in  dew, 

And  soft  and  far  the  noontide  shed 
Its  holiness  of  blue. 

The  rock,  the  earth,  the  wave,  the  brake 
Rejoiced  beneath  that  sweet  succeeding; 

No  sun  nor  sound  can  warm  or  wake 
One  human  heart's  unheeding. 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  257 

Stretched  on  the  dark  earth's  bosom,  chill, 
Amboise's  lord  lay  stark  and  still. 
The  heralds  raise  him,  but  to  mark 
The  last  light  leave  his  eyeballs  dark — 
The  last  blood  dwindle  on  his  cheek — 
They  turned  ;  a  murmur  wild  and  weak 

Passed  on  the  air,  in  passion  broken, 
The  faint  low  sob  of  one  in  pain — 

"Lo !  the  faith  thou  hast  forgotten 
Binds  thee  with  its  broken  chain !  " 


PART  FIFTH. 


The  mists,  that  mark  the  day's  decline, 

Have  cooled  and  lulled  the  purple  air ; 
The  bell,  from  Saint  Cecilia's  shrine, 

Hath  tolled  the  evening  hour  of  prayer ; 
With  folded  veil,  and  eyes  that  shed 
Faint  rays  along  the  stones  they  tread, 
And  bosom  stooped,  and  step  subdued, 
Came  forth  that  ancient  sisterhood  ; 
Each  bearing  on  her  lips  along 
Part  of  the  surge  of  a  low  song, — 
A  wailing  requiem,  wildly  mixed 

With  suppliant  cry,  how  weak  to  win, 
From  home  so  far — from  fate  so  fixed, 

A  Spirit  dead  in  sin  ! 
Yet  yearly  must  they  meet,  and  pray 

For  her  who  died — how  long  ago  ? 

How  long — 'twere  only  Love  could  know 
And  she,  ere  her  departing  day, 
Had  watched  the  last  of  Love's  decay  ; 
Had  felt  upon  her  fading  cheek 

None  but  a  stranger's  sighs ; 
6 


258  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Had  none  but  stranger  souls  to  seek 
Her  death-thoughts  in  her  eyes ; 

Had  none  to  guard  her  couch  of  clay, 
Or  trim  her  funeral  stone, 

Save  those,  who,  when  she  passed  away, 
Felt  not  the  more  alone. 

n. 

And  years  had  seen  that  narrow  spot 
Of  death-sod  levelled  and  forgot, 
Ere  question  came  of  record  kept, 
Or  how  she  died — or  where  she  slept. 
The  night  was  wild,  the  moon  was  late— 
A  lady  sought  the  convent  gate  ; 
The  midnight  chill  was  on  her  breast, 

The  dew  was  on  her  hair, 
And  in  her  eye  there  was  unrest, 

And  on  her  brow  despair  ; 
She  came  to  seek  the  face,  she  said, 

Of  one  deep  injured.     One  by  one 
The  gentle  sisters  came,  and  shed 

The  meekness  of  their  looks  upon 
Her  troubled  watch.     "  I  know  them  not, 

I  know  them  not,"  she  murmured  still: 
"Are  then  her  face — her  form  forgot?  " 

"Alas !  we  lose  not  when  we  will 
The  thoughts  of  an  accomplished  ill ; 
The  image  of  our  love  may  fade, 
But  what  can  quench  a  victim's  shade  ? 

ra. 

"  She  comes  not  yet.     She  will  not  come. 

I  seek  her  chamber  ; "  and  she  rose 
With  a  quick  start  of  grief,  which  some 

Would  have  restrained  ;  but  the  repose 
Of  her  pale  brow  rebuked  them.     "  Back," 

She  cried,  "  the  path, — the  place, — I  know,- 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  259 

Follow  me  not — though  broad  and  black 
The  night  lies  on  that  lonely  track. 
There  moves  forever  by  my  side 
A  darker  spirit  for  my  guide  ; 
A  broader  curse — a  wilder  woe, 
Must  gird  my  footsteps  as  I  go." 

rv. 

Sternly  she  spoke,  and,  shuddering,  sought 
The  cloister  arches,  marble-wrought, 
That  send,  through  many  a  trembling  shaft 
The  deep  wind's  full,  melodious  draught, 
Round  the  low  space  of  billowy  turf 
Where  funeral  roses  flash  like  surf, 
O'er  those  who  share  the  convent  grave, 
Laid  each  beneath  her  own  green  wave. 

v. 

From  stone  to  stone  she  passed,  and  spelt 
The  letters  with  her  fingers  felt ; 
The  stains  of  time  are  drooped  across 
Those  mouldering  names,  obscure  with  moss ; 
The  hearts  where  once  they  deeply  dwelt, 
With  music's  power  to  move  and  melt, 
Are  stampless  too — the  fondest  few 
Have  scarcely  kept  a  trace  more  true. 

VI. 

She  paused  at  length  beside  a  girth 

Of  osiers  overgrown  and  old  ; 
And  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth, 

Spoke  slowly  and  from  lips  as  cold 

As  ever  met  the  burial  mould. 

VII. 

"I  have  not  come  to  ask  for  peace 

From  thee,  thou  unforgiving  clay  ! 
The  pangs  that  pass — the  throbs  that  cease 
From  such  as  thou,  in  their  decay, 


260  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Bequeath  them  that  repose  of  wrath 

So  dark  of  heart,  so  dull  of  ear, 
That  bloodless  strength  of  sworded  sloth, 

That  shows  not  mercy,  knows  not  fear, 
And  keeps  its  death-smile  of  disdain 
Alike  for  pity,  as  for  pain. 
But,  galled  by  many  a  ghastly  link, 

That  bound  and  brought  my  soul  to  thee, 
I  come  to  bid  thy  vengeance  drink 

The  wine  of  this  my  misery. 
Look  on  me  as  perchance  the  dead 
Can  look  ;  through  soul  and  spirit  spread 
Before  thee  ;  go  thou  forth,  and  tread 
The  lone  fields  of  my  life,  and  see 

Those  dark  large  flocks  of  restless  pangs 
They  pasture,  and  the  thoughts  of  thee, 

That  shepherd  them,  and  teach  their  fangs 
To  eat  the  green,  and  guide  their  feet 
To  trample  where  the  banks  are  sweet 
And  judge  betwixt  us,  which  is  best, 
My  sleepless  torture,  or  thy  rest ; 
And  which  the  worthier  to  be  wept, 
The  fate  I  caused,  or  that  I  kept. 
I  tell  thee,  that  my  steps  must  stain 
With  more  than  blood,  their  path  of  pain  ; 
And  I  would  fold  my  weary  feet 
More  gladly  in  thy  winding-sheet, 
And  wrap  my  bosom  in  thy  shroud, 
And  dash  thy  darkness  on  the  crowd 

Of  terrors  in  my  sight,  and  sheathe 
Mine  ears  from  their  confusion  loud, 

And  cool  my  brain  with  cypress  wreath 
More  gladly  from  its  pulse  of  blood, 
Than  ever  bride  with  orange  bud 
Clouded  her  moony  brow.     Alas  ! 
This  osier  fence  I  must  not  pass. 
Wilt  thou  not  thank  me — that  I  dare 

To  feel  the  beams  and  drink  the  breath 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  261 

That  curse  me  out  of  Heaven,  nor  share 
The  cup  that  quenches  human  care, 

The  sacrament  of  death  ; 
But  yield  thee  this,  thy  living  prey 
Of  erring  soul  and  tortured  clay, 
To  feed  thee,  when  thou  com'st  to  keep 
Thy  watch  of  wrath  around  my  sleep, 
Or  turn  the  shafts  of  daylight  dim, 
With  faded  breast  and  frozen  limb  ? 

vm. 

"  Yet  come,  and  be,  as  thou  hast  been, 
Companion  ceaseless — not  unseen, 
Though  gloomed  the  veil  of  flesh  between 
Mine  eyes  and  thine,  and  fast  and  rife 
Around  me  flashed  the  forms  of  life  : 
I  knew  them  by  their  change — for  one 
I  did  not  lose,  I  could  not  shun, 
Through  laughing  crowd,  and  lighted  room, 
Through  listed  field,  and  battle's  gloom, 
Through  all  the  shapes  and  sounds  that  press 
The  Path,  or  wake  the  Wilderness ; 
E'en  when  He  came,  mine  eyes  to  fill, 
Whom  Love  saw  solitary  still, 
For  ever,  shadowy  by  my  side, 
I  heard  thee  murmur,  watched  thee  glide  ; 
But  what  shall  now  thy  purpose  bar  ? 
The  laughing  crowd  is  scattered  far, 
The  lighted  hall  is  left  forlorn, 
The  listed  field  is  white  with  corn, 
And  he,  beneath  whose  voice  and  brow 
I  could  forget  thee — is — as  thou." 

IX. 

She  spoke,  she  rose,  and  from  that  hour, 
The  peasant  groups  that  pause  beside 
The  chapel  walls  at  eventide, 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

To  catch  the  notes  of  chord  and  song 

That  unseen  fingers  form,  and  lips  prolong, 
Have  heard  a  voice  of  deeper  power, 

Of  wilder  swell,  and  purer  fall, 

More  sad,  more  modulate,  than  all. 
It  is  not  keen,  it  is  not  loud, 

But  ever  heard  alone, 
As  winds  that  touch  on  chords  of  cloucl 

Across  the  heavenly  zone, 

Then  chiefly  heard,  when  drooped  and  drowned 
In  strength  of  sorrow,  more  than  sound  ; 
That  low  articulated  rush 

Of  swift,  but  secret  passion,  breaking 
From  sob  to  song,  from  gasp  to  gush  ; 
Then  failing  to  that  deadly  hush, 

That  only  knows  the  wilder  waking — 
That  deep,  prolonged,  and  dream-like  swell, 
So  full  that  rose — so  faint  that  fell, 
So  sad — so  tremulously  clear — 
So  checked  with  something  worse  than  fear. 
Whose  can  they  be  ? 
Go,  ask  the  midnight  stars,  that  see 
The  secrets  of  her  sleepless  cell, 
For  none  but  God  and  they  can  tell 
"What  thoughts  and  deeds  of  darkened  choice 
Gave  horror  to  that  burning  voice — 
That  voice,  unheard  save  thus,  untaught 

The  words  of  penitence  or  prayer  ; 
The  grey  confessor  knows  it  not ; 

The  chapel  echoes  only  bear 

Its  burst  and  burthen  of  despair  ; 
And  pity's  voice  hath  rude  reply, 
From  darkened  brow  and  downcast  eye, 
That  quench  the  question,  kind  or  rash, 
With  rapid  shade,  and  reddening  flash  ; 
Or,  worse,  with  the  regardless  trance 
Of  sealed  ear,  and  sightless  glance, 
That  fearful  glance,  so  large  and  bright, 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

That  dwells  so  long,  with  heed  so  light, 
When  far  within,  its  fancy  lies, 
Nor  movement  marks,  nor  ray  replies, 
Nor  kindling  dawn,  nor  holy  dew 
Eeward  the  words  that  soothe  or  sue. 


Eestless  she  moves  ;  beneath  her  veil 

That  writhing  brow  is  sunk  and  shaded  ; 
Its  touch  is  cold — its  veins  are  pale — 

Its  crown  is  lost — its  lustre  faded  ; 
Tet  lofty  still,  though  scarcely  bright, 
Its  glory  burns  beneath  the  blight 
Of  wasting  thought,  and  withering  crime, 
And  curse  of  torture  and  of  time  ; 
Of  pangs — of  pride,  endured — degraded — 
Of  guilt  unchecked,  and  grief  unaided : 
Her  sable  hair  is  slightly  braided, 
Warm,  like  south  wind,  its  foldings  float 
Hound  her  soft  hands  and  marble  throat ; 
How  passive  these,  how  pulseless  this, 

That  love  should  lift,  and  life  should  warm ! 
Ah !  where  the  kindness,  or  the  kiss, 

Can  break  their  dead  and  drooping  charm  ! 
Perchance  they  were  not  always  so  : 

That  breast  hath  sometimes  movement  deep, 
Timed  like  the  sea  that  surges  slow 
Where  storms  have  trodden  long  ago  ; 

And  sometimes,  from  their  listless  sleep, 
Those  hands  are  harshly  writhed  and  knit, 
As  grasping  what  their  frenzied  fit 
Deemed  peace  to  crush,  or  death  to  quit. 
And  then  the  sisters  shrink  aside  ; 

They  know  the  words  that  others  hear 
Of  grace,  or  gloom — to  charm  or  chide, 

Fall  on  her  inattentive  ear, 
As  falls  the  snowflake  on  the  rock, 


264  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

That  feels  no  chill,  and  knows  no  shock  ; 
Nor  dare  they  mingle  in  her  mood, 
So  dark,  and  dimly  understood  ; 
And  better  so,  if,  as  they  say, 
'Tis  something  worse  than  solitude  : 
For  some  have  marked,  when  that  dismay 
Had  seemed  to  snatch  her  soul  away, 
That  in  her  eye's  unquietness 
There  shone  more  terror  than  distress ; 
And  deemed  they  heard,  when  soft  and  dead, 
By  night  they  watched  her  sleepless  tread, 
Strange  words  addressed,  beneath  her  breath, 
As  if  to  one  who  heard  in  death, 
And,  in  the  night  wind's  sound  and  sigh, 
Imagined  accents  of  reply. 


XI. 

The  sun  is  on  his  western  march, 

His  rays  are  red  on  shaft  and  arch  ; 

With  hues  of  hope  their  softness  dyes 

The  image  with  the  lifted  eyes, 

Where,  listening  still,  with  tranced  smile, 

Cecilia  lights  the  glimmering  aisle  ; 

So  calm  the  beams  that  flushed  her  rest 

Of  ardent  brow,  and  virgin  breast 

Whose  chill  they  pierced,  but  not  profaned, 

And  seemed  to  stir,  what  scarce  they  staineds 

So  warm  the  life,  so  pure  the  ray : 

Such  she  had  stood,  ere  snatched  from  clay, 

When  sank  the  tones  of  sun  and  sphere, 

Deep  melting  on  her  mortal  ear  ; 

And  angels  stooped,  with  fond  control, 

To  write  the  rapture  on  her  soul. 

xn. 

Two  sisters,  at  the  statue's  feet, 
Paused  in  the  altar's  arched  retreat, 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  265 

As  risen  but  now  from  earnest  prayer — 
One  aged  and  grey — one  passing  fair  ; 
In  changeful  gush  of  breath  and  blood, 
Mute  for  a  time  the  younger  stood  ; 
Then  raised  her  head  and  spoke  :  the  flow 
Of  sound  was  measured,  stern,  and  slow ; 


xm. 

"  Mother !  thou  sayest  she  died  in  strife 

Of  heavenly  wrath,  and  human  woe  ; 
For  me,  there  is  not  that  in  life 

Whose  loss  could  ask,  or  love  could  owe 

As  much  of  pang  as  now  I  show  ; 
But  that  the  book  which  angels  write 

Within  men's  spirits  day  by  day 
That  diary  of  judgment-light 

That  cannot  pass  away, 
Which,  with  cold  ear  and  glazing  eye, 
Men  hear  and  read  before  they  die, 
Is  open  now  before  me  set ; 
Its  drifting  leaves  are  red  and  wet 
"With  blood  and  fire,  and  yet,  methought, 
Its  words  were  music,  were  they  not 
Written  in  darkness. 

/  confess ! 
Say'st  thou  ?     The  sea  shall  yield  its  dead, 

Perchance  my  spirit  its  distress  ; 
Yet  there  are  paths  of  human  dread 
That  none  but  God  should  trace  or  tread ; 
Men  judge  by  a  degraded  law  ; 

With  Him  I  fear  not  :  He  who  gave 
The  sceptre  to  the  passion,  saw 

The  sorrow  of  the  slave. 
He  made  me,  not  as  others  are, 

Who  dwell,  like  willows  by  a  brook, 
That  see  the  shadow  of  one  star 

Forever  with  serenest  look, 


266  TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Lighting  their  leaves, — that  only  hear 
Their  sun-stirred  boughs  sing  soft  and  clear, 
And  only  live,  by  consciousness 
Of  waves  that  feed,  and  winds  that  bless. 
Me — rooted  on  a  lonely  rock, 

Amidst  the  rush  of  mountain  rivers, 
He,  doomed  to  bear  the  sound  and  shock 
Of  shafts  that  rend  and  storms  that  rock, 

The  frost  that  blasts,  and  flash  that  shivers  ; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sunk. 
A  lifeless  wreck — a  leafless  trunk, 
Smitten  with  plagues,  and  seared  with  sin, 
And  black  with  rottenness  within, 
But  conscious  of  the  holier  will 
That  saved  me  long,  and  strengthens  still. 

XIV. 

"Mine  eyes  are  dim,  they  scarce  can  trace 
The  rays  that  pierce  this  lonely  place  ; 
But  deep  within  their  darkness  dwell 
A  thousand  thoughts  they  knew — too  welL 
Those  orbed  towers  obscure  and  vast,1 
That  light  the  Loire  with  sunset  last ; 
Those  fretted  groups  of  shaft  and  spire 
That  crest  Amboise's  cliff  with  fire, 
"When,  far  beneath,  in  moonlight  fail 
The  winds  that  shook  the  pausing  sail ; 
The  panes  that  tint  with  dyes  divine 
The  altar  of  St.  Hubert's  shrine  ; 
The  very  stone  on  which  I  knelt ; 

When  youth  was  pure  upon  my  brow, 
Though  word  I  prayed,  or  wish  I  felt 

I  scarce  remember  now. 
Methought  that  there  I  bowed  to  bless 

A  warrior's  sword — a  wanderer's  way  : 
Ah  !  nearer  now,  the  knee  would  press 

1  Note,  page  100. 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN".  267 

The  heart  for  which  the  lips  would  pray. 
The  thoughts  were  meek,  the  words  were  low— 

I  deemed  them  free  from  sinful  stain ; 
It  might  be  so.     I  only  know 

These  were  unheard,  and  those  were  vain. 

xv. 

That  stone  is  raised  ; — where  once  it  lay 
Is  built  a  tomb  of  marble  grey  :  * 
Asleep  within  the  sculptured  veil 
Seems  laid  a  knight  in  linked  mail ; 
Obscurely  laid  in  powerless  rest, 

The  latest  of  his  line, 
Upon  his  casque  he  bears  no  crest, 

Upon  his  shield  no  sign. 
I've  seen  the  day  when  through  the  blue 
Of  broadest  heaven  his  banner  flew, 
And  armies  watched  through  farthest  fight, 
The  stainless  symbol's  stormy  light 

Wave  like  an  angel's  wing. 

Ah  !  now  a  scorned  and  scathed  thing', 
It's  silken  folds  the  worm  shall  fret, 
The  clay  shall  soil,  the  dew  shall  wet, 
Where  sleeps  the  sword  that  once  could 

And  droops  the  arm  that  bore  ; 
Its  hues  must  gird  a  nameless  grave  ; 
Nor  wind  shall  wake,  nor  lance  shall  wave, 

Nor  glory  gild  it  more  : 
For  he  is  fallen — oh  !  ask  not  how, 
Or  ask  the  angels  that  unlock 
The  inmost  grave's  sepulchral  rock  ; 
I  could  have  told  thee  once,  but  now 
'Tis  madness  in  me  all,  and  thou 
Wouldst  deem  it  so,  if  I  should  speak. 
And  I  am  glad  my  brain  is  weak  ; — 
Ah,  this  is  yet  its  only  wrong, 
To  know  too  well — to  feel  too  long. 
1  Note,  page  100, 


268  THE  BROKEN  GHAHT. 

XVI. 

"  But  I  remember  how  he  lay 
When  the  rushing  crowd  were  all  away  j 
And  how  I  called,  with  that  low  cry 
He  never  heard  without  reply ; 
And  how  there  came  no  sound,  nor  sign, 
And  the  feel  of  his  dead  lips  on  mine ; 
And  when  they  came  to  comfort  me, 
I  laughed,  because  they  could  not  see 
The  stain  of  blood,  or  print  of  lance, 
To  write  the  tomb  upon  the  trance. 
I  saw,  what  they  had  heeded  not, 
Above  his  heart  a  small  black  spot ; 
Ah,  woe  !  I  knew  how  deep  within 
That  stamp  of  death,  that  seal  of  sin 
Had  struck  with  mortal  agony 
The  heart  so  false — to  all  but  me. 

xvn. 

"  Mother,  methinks  my  soul  can  say 
It  loved  as  well  as  woman's  may  ; 
And  what  I  would  have  given,  to  gain 
The  answering  love,  to  count  were  vain  j 
I  know  not — what  I  gave  I  know — 
My  hope  on  high,  my  all  below. 
But  hope  and  height  of  earth  and 
Or  highest  sphere  to  angels  given, 
Would  I  surrender,  and  take  up 
The  horror  of  this  cross  and  cup 
I  bear  and  drink,  to  win  the  thought 
That  I  had  failed  in  what  I  sought. 
Alas  !  I  won — rejoiced  to  win 
The  love  whose  every  look  was  sin. 
Whose  every  dimly  worded  breath 
Was  but  the  distant  bell  of  death 
For  her  who  heard,  for  him  who  spoke. 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  269 

Ah  !  though  those  hours  were  swift  and 
The  guilt  they  bore,  the  vow  they  broke, 
Time  cannot  punish — nor  renew. 

xvm. 

"They  told  me  long  ago  that  thou 

Hadst  seen,  beneath  this  very  shade 
Of  mouldering  stone  that  wraps  us  now, 

The  death  of  her  whom  he  betrayed. 
Thine  eyes  are  wet  with  memory, — 
In  truth  'tis  fearful  sight  to  see 
E'en  the  last  sands  of  sorrow  run, 
Though  the  fierce  work  of  death  be  done, 
And  the  worst  woe  that  fate  can  will 
Bids  but  its  victim  to  be  still. 
But  I  beheld  the  darker  years 

That  first  oppressed  her  beauty's  bloom ; 
The  sickening  heart  and  silent  tears 

That  asked  and  eyed  her  early  tomb ; 

I  watched  the  deepening  of  her  doom, 
As,  pulse  by  pulse,  and  day  by  day, 
The  crimson  life -tint  waned  away 
And  timed  her  bosom's  quickening  beat, 

That  hastened  only  to  be  mute, 
And  the  short  tones,  each  day  more  sweet* 

That  made  her  lips  like  an  Eolian  lute, 
"When  winds  are  saddest ;  and  I  saw 
The  kindling  of  the  unearthly  awe 
That  touched  those  lips  with  frozen  light* 
The  smile,  so  bitter,  yet  so  bright, 
Which  grief,  that  sculptured,  seals  its  own, 
Which  looks  like  life,  but  stays  like  stone  ; 
Which  checks  with  fear  the  charm  it  gives, 
And  loveliest  burns,  when  least  it  lives, — 
All  this  I  saw.     Thou  canst  not  guesa 
How  woman  may  be  merciless. 
One  word  from  me  had  rent  apart 
The  chains  that  chafed  her  dying  heart : 


270  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Closer  I  clasped  the  links  of  care, 
And  learned  to  pity — not  to  spare. 


XIX. 

"  She  might  have  been  avenged  ;  for,  when 
Her  woe  was  aidless  among  men, 
And  tooth  of  scorn  and  brand  of  shame 
Had  seared  her  spirit,  soiled  her  name, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  her  side, 

Or — if  a  friend,  forgotten  long, 
For  hearts  are  frail,  when  hands  divide. 
There  were  who  said  her  early  pride 

Had  cast  his  love  away  with  wrong ; 

But  that  might  be  a  dreamer's  song. 
He  looked  like  one  whom  power  or  pain 

Had  hardened,  or  had  hewn,  to  rock 
That  could  not  melt  nor  rend  again, 

Unless  the  staff  of  God  might  shock, 
And  burst  the  sacred  waves  to  birth 
That  deck  with  bloom  the  Desert's  dearth — 
That  dearth,  that  knows  nor  breeze,  nor  balm, 

Nor  feet  that  print,  nor  sounds  that  thrill, 
Though  cloudless  was  his  soul,  and  calm, 

It  was  the  Desert  still ; 
And  blest  the  wildest  cloud  had  been 
That  broke  the  desolate  serene, 
And  kind  the  storm,  that  farthest  strewed 
Those  burning  sands  of  solitude. 


xx. 


"  Darkly  he  came,  and  in  the  dust 

Had  writ,  perchance,  Amboise's  shame  : 

I  knew  the  sword  he  drew  was  just, 
And  in  my  fear  a  fiend  there  came  ; 

It  deepened  first,  and  then  derided 
The  madness  of  my  youth  ; 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  2Y1 

I  deemed  not  that  the  God,  who  guided 

The  battle  blades  in  truth, 
Could  gather  from  the  earth  the  guilt 
Of  holy  blood  in  secret  spilt. 


XXI. 

"  I  watched  at  night  the  feast  flow  high  ; 
I  kissed  the  cup  he  drank  to  die ; 
I  heard  at  morn  the  trumpet  call 
Leap  cheerily  round  the  guarded  wall ; 
And  laughed  to  think  how  long  and  clear 
The  blast  must  be,  for  him  to  hear. 
He  lies  within  the  chambers  deep, 

Beneath  Amboise's  chapel  floor, 
"Where  slope  the  rocks  in  ridges  steep, 

Far  to  the  river  shore  ; 
Where  thick  the  summer  flowers  are  sown, 
And,  even  within  the  deadening  stone, 

A  living  ear  can  catch  the  close 
Of  gentle  waves  forever  sent, 
To  soothe,  with  lull  and  long  lament, 

That  murdered  knight's  repose  : 
And  yet  he  sleeps  not  well ; — but  I 

Am  wild,  and  know  not  what  I  say  ; — • 
My  guilt  thou  knowest — the  penalty 

Which  I  have  paid,  and  yet  must  pay, 

Thou  canst  not  measure.     O'er  the  day 
I  see  the  shades  of  twilight  float — 
My  time  is  short.     Believest  thou  not  ? 
I  know  my  pulse  is  true  and  light, 
My  step  is  firm,  mine  eyes  are  bright ; 
Yet  see  they — what  thou  canst  not  see, 
The  open  grave,  deep  dug  for  me  ; 
The  vespers  we  shall  sing  to-night 

My  burial  hymn  shall  be  : 
But  what  the  path  by  which  I  go, 
My  heart  desires  yet  dreads  to  know. 


272  THE  BROKEN  GRAIN. 

But  this  remember,  (these  the  last 

Of  words  I  speak  for  earthly  ear  ; 
Nor  sign  nor  sound  my  soul  shall  cast, 

Wrapt  in  its  final  fear) : 
For  him,  forgiving,  brave  and  true, 
Whom  timeless  and  unshrived  I  slew, 
For  him  be  holiest  masses  said, 
And  rites  that  sanctify  the  dead, 
With  yearly  honor  paid. 
For  her,  by  whom  he  was  betrayed, 
Nor  blood  be  shed,  nor  prayer  be  made,— 
The  cup  were  death — the  words  were  sin, 
To  judge  the  soul  they  could  not  win, 
And  fall  in  torture  o'er  the  grave 
Of  one  they  could  not  wash,  nor  save." 
***** 

xxn. 

The  vesper  beads  are  told  and  slipped, 
The  chant  has  sunk  by  choir  and  crypt. 
That  circle  dark — they  rise  not  yet ; 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  lashes  wet, 

They  linger,  bowed  and  low  ; 
They  must  not  part  before  they  pray 
For  her  who  left  them  on  this  day 

How  many  years  ago  ! 

xxm. 

They  knelt  within  the  marble  screen, 
Black-robed  and  moveless,  hardly  seen, 
Save  by  their  shades  that  sometimes  shook 

Along  the  quiet  floor, 
Like  leaf-shades  on  a  waveless  brook 

When  the  wind  walks  by  the  shore. 
The  altar  lights  that  burned  between, 
Were  seven  small  fire-shafts,  white  and  keen, 

Intense  and  motionless. 


TEE  BROKEN  CHAIN.  273 

They  did  not  shake  for  breeze  nor  breath, 

They  did  not  change,  nor  sink,  nor  shiver  ; 
They  burned  as  burn  the  barbs  of  death 

At  rest  within  their  angel's  quiver. 
From  lip  to  lip,  in  chorus  kept, 
The  sad  sepulchral  music  swept, 
While  one  sweet  voice  unceasing  led  : 
Were  there  but  mercy  for  the  dead, 
Such  prayer  had  power  to  soothe — to  save — 
Ay,  even  beneath  the  binding  grave  ; 
So  pure  the  springs  of  faith  that  fill 

The  spirit's  fount,  at  last  unsealed. 
A  corpse's  ear,  an  angel's  will, 

That  voice  might  wake,  or  wield. 
Keener  it  rose,  and  wilder  yet, 
The  lifeless  flowers  that  wreathe  and  fret 
Column  and  arch  with  garlands  white, 
Drank  the  deep  fall  of  its  delight, 
Like  purple  rain  at  evening  shed 

On  Sestri's  cedar-darkened  shore, 
When  all  her  sunlit  waves  lie  dead, 
And  far  along  the  mountains  fled, 

Her  clouds  forget  the  gloom  they  wore, 
Till  winding  vale  and  pasture  low 
Pant  underneath  their  gush  and  glow ; 
So  sank,  so  swept,  on  earth  and  air, 
That  single  voice  of  passioned  prayer. 
The  hollow  tombs  gave  back  the  tone, 
The  roof's  grey  shafts  of  stalwart  stone 
Quivered  like  chords,  the  keen  night  blast 
Grew  tame  beneath  the  sound.     'Tis  past : 
That  failing  cry — how  feebly  flung  ! 
What  charm  is  laid  on  her  who  sung  ? 

Slowly  she  rose — her  eyes  were  fixed 
On  the  void,  penetrable  air ; 

And  in  their  glance  was  gladness  mixed 
With  terror,  and  an  under  glare : 
What  human  soul  shall  seize  or  share 
7 


274  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

The  thoughts  it  might  avow  ? 
It  might  have  been — ah  !  is  it  now — 
Devotion  ? — or  despair  ? 

xxrv. 

With  steps  whose  short  white  flashes  keep 

Beneath  the  shade  of  her  loose  hair, 
With  measured  pace,  as  one  in  sleep 

Who  heareth  music  in  the  air, 
She  left  the  sisters'  circle  deep. 
Their  anxious  eyes  of  troubled  thought 
Dwelt  on  her  but  she  heeded  not ; 
Fear  struck  and  breathless  as  they  gazed, 

Before  her  steps  their  ranks  divided  ; 
Her  hand  was  given — her  face  was  raised 

As  if  to  one  who  watched  and  guided — 
Her  form  emerges  from  the  shade  ; 
Lo !  she  will  cross,  where  full  displayed 
Against  the  altar  light  'tis  thrown  ; 
She  crosses  now — but  not  alone. 
Who  leads  her  ?    Lo  !  the  sisters'  shrink 
Back  from  that  guide  with  limbs  that  sink, 
And  eyes  that  glaze,  and  lips  that  blench  ; 

For,  seen  where  broad  the  beams  were  cast 
By  what  it  dimmed,  but  did  not  quench, 

A  dark,  veiled  form  there  passed — 
Veiled  with  the  nun's  black  robe,  that  shed 
Faint  shade  around  its  soundless  tread ; 
Moveless  and  mute  the  folds  that  fell, 
Nor  touch  can  change,  nor  breeze  repel. 
Deep  to  the  earth  its  head  was  bowed, 
Its  face  was  bound  with  the  white  shroud  ; 
One  hand  upon  its  bosom  pressed — 
One  seemed  to  lead  its  mortal  guest ; 
The  hand  it  held  lay  bright  and  bare, 
Cold  as  itself,  and  deadly  fair. 
What  oath  had  bound  the  fatal  troth 
Whose  horror  seems  to  seal  them  both  ? 


THIS  BROKEN  CHAIN.  275 

Each  powerless  in  the  grasp  they  give, 
This  to  release,  and  that  to  live. 

xxv. 

Like  sister  sails,  that  drift  by  night 
Together  on  the  deep, 

Seen  only  where  they  cross  the  light 
That  pathless  waves  must  pathlike  keep 
From  fisher's  signal  fire,  or  pharos  steep. 

XXVI. 

Like  two  thin  wreaths  that  autumn  dew 

Hath  framed  of  equal  paced  cloud, 

Whose  shapes  the  hollow  night  can  shroud, 
Until  they  cross  some  caverned  place 

Of  moon  illumined  blue, 
That  live  an  instant,  but  must  trace 
Their  onward  way,  to  waste  and  wane 
Within  the  sightless  gloom  again, 
Where,  scattered  from  their  heavenly  pride 
Nor  star  nor  storm  shall  gild  or  guide, — 
So  shape  and  shadow,  side  by  side 
The  consecrated  light  had  crossed. 
Beneath  the  aisle  an  instant  lost, 

Behold !  again  they  glide 
Where  yonder  moonlit  arch  is  bent 
Above  the  marble  steps'  descent, — 
Those  ancient  steps,  so  steep  and  worn, 

Though  none  descend,  unless  it  be 
Bearing,  or  borne,  to  sleep,  or  mourn, 

The  faithful  or  the  free. 
The  shade  yon  bending  cypress  cast, 

Stirred  by  the  weak  and  tremulous  air, 
Kept  back  the  moonlight  as  they  passed. 

The  rays  returned  :  they  were  not  there. 
Who  follows  ?    Watching  still,  to  mark 
If  ought  returned — (but  all  was  dark) 


276  THE  BROKEN  CHAIN. 

Down  to  the  gate,  by  two  and  three, 
The  sisters  crept,  how  fearfully ! 
They  only  saw,  when  there  they  came, 
Two  wandering  tongues  of  waving  flame, 
O'er  the  white  stones,  confusedly  strewed 
Across  the  field  of  solitude. 


NOTES. 

Stanza  II.     Line  4. 

"  The  image  with  the  lifted  eyes." — I  was  thinking  of  the  St.  Cecilia 
of  Raphael  at  Bologna,  turned  into  marble — were  it  possible — where  so 
much  depends  on  the  entranced  darkness  of  the  eyes.  The  shrine  of 
St.  Cecilia  is  altogether  imaginary ;  she  is  not  a  favorite  saint  in  matters 
of  dedication.  I  don't  know  why. 

Stanza  XIV.     Line  5. 

"Those  orbed  towers,  obscure  and  vast." — The  circular  tower,  in 
Amboise,  is  so  large  as  to  admit  of  a  spiral  ascent  in  its  interior,  which 
two  horsemen  may  ride  up  abreast.  The  chapel,  which  crowns  the 
precipice,  though  small,  is  one  of  the  loveliest  bits  of  rich  detail  in 
France.  It  is  terminated  by  a  wooden  spire.  It  is  dedicated  to  St. 
Hubert,  a  grotesque  piece  of  carving  above  the  entrance  representing  hia 
rencontre  with  the  sacred  stag. 

Stanza  XV.     Line  2. 

"  Is  built  a  tomb  of  marble  grey." — There  is  no  such  tomb  now  in 
existence,  the  chapel  being  circular,  and  unbroken  in  design  ;  in  fact, 
I  have  my  doubts  whether  there  ever  was  anything  of  the  kind,  the  lady 
being  slightly  too  vague  in  her  assertions  to  deserve  unqualified  credit. 

Stanza  XXI.     Line  42. 

"  Nor  blood  be  shed." — In  the  sacrifices  of  masses  the  priest  is  said  to 
offer  Christ  for  the  quick  and  dead. 

Stanza  XXIH.     Line  26. 

"Like  purple  rain." — I  never  saw  such  a  thing  but  once,  on  the 
mountains  of  Sestri,  in  the  gulf  of  Genoa.  The  whole  western  half  of 
the  sky  was  one  intense  amber  color,  the  air  crystalline  and  cloudless, 
the  other  half,  grey  with  drifting  showers.  At  the  instant  of  sunset, 
the  whole  mass  of  rain  turned  of  a  deep  rose-color,  the  consequent  rain- 
bow being  not  varied  with  the  seven  colors,  but  one  broad  belt  of  paler 
rose  ;  the  other  tints  being  so  delicate  as  to  be  overwhelmed  by  the 
crimson  of  the  rain. 


THE  TEARS  OP  P8AMMEX1TU8. 


THE    TEAKS    OF   PSAMMENITUS. 

[CAMBYSES,  the  son  of  Cyr*s,  made  war  on  Psammenitus  of  Egypt, 
and  deposed  him.  His  sons  were  sentenced  to  death,  his  daughters  to 
slavery.  He  saw  his  children  pass  to  death  and  to  dishonor  without 
apparent  emotion,  but  wept  on  observing  a  noble,  who  had  been  his 
companion,  ask  alms  of  the  Persians.  Cambyses  sent  to  inquire  tha 
reason  of  his  conduct.  The  substance  of  his  reply  was  as  follows : — ] 

SAY  ye  I  wept  ?    I  do  not  know  : — 

There  came  a  sound  across  my  brain. 
"Which  was  familiar  long  ago  ; 

And  through  the  hot  and  crimson  stain 
That  floods  the  earth  and  chokes  the  air, 
I  saw  the  waving  of  white  hair — 

The  palsy  of  an  aged  brow  ; 

I  should  have  known  it  once,  but  now 
One  desperate  hour  hath  dashed  away 
The  memory  of  my  kingly  day. 
Mute,  weak,  unable  to  deliver 

That  bowed  distress  of  passion  pale, 
I  saw  that  forehead's  tortured  quiver, 

And  watched  the  weary  footstep  fail, 
With  just  as  much  of  sickening  thrill 
As  marked  my  heart  was  human  still ; 
Yes,  though  my  breast  is  bound  and  barred 
With  pain,  and  though  that  heart  is  hard, 
And  though  the  grief  that  should  have  bent 

Hath  made  me,  what  ye  dare  not  mock, 
The  being  of  untamed  intent, 

Between  the  tiger  and  the  rock, 
There's  that  of  pity's  outward  glow 

May  bid  the  tear  atone, 
In  mercy  to  another's  woe 

For  mockery  of  its  own  ; 
It  is  not  cold, — it  is  not  less, 
Though  yielded  in  unconsciousness. 


278  THE  TEARS  OF  P8AMMENITU8. 

And  it  is  well  that  I  can  weep, 

For  in  the  shadow,  not  of  sleep, 

Through  which,  as  with  a  vain  endeavor, 

These  aged  eyes  must  gaze  forever, 

Their  tears  can  cast  the  only  light 

That  mellows  down  the  mass  of  night ; 

For  they  have  seen  the  curse  of  sight 

My  spirit  guards  the  dread  detail 

And  wears  their  vision  like  a  veil. 

They  saw  the  low  Pelusian  shore 

Grow  warm  with  death  and  dark  with  gore, 

When  on  those  widely  watered  fields, 
Shivered  and  sunk,  betrayed,  oppressed, 
Ionian  sword  and  Carian  crest,1 

And  Egypt's  shade  of  shields  : 
They  saw,  oh  God  !  they  still  must  see 
That  dream  of  long  dark  agony, 
A  vision  passing,  never  past, 
A  troop  of  kingly  forms,  that  cast 
Cold  quivering  shadows  of  keen  pain 
In  bars  of  darkness  o'er  my  brain  : 
I  see  them  move, — I  hear  them  tread, 

Each  his  untroubled  eyes  declining, 
Though  fierce  in  front,  and  swift  and  red 

The  Eastern  sword  is  sheathless  shining. 
I  hear  them  tread, — the  earth  doth  not ! 
Alas !  its  echoes  have  forgot 
The  fiery  steps  that  shook  the  shore 
"With  their  swift  pride  in  days  of  yore. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  wrath  arrayed, 
Shall  Egypt  wave  her  battle  blade ; 
It  cannot  cleave  the  dull  death  shade, 
Where,  sternly  checked  and  lowly  laid, 
Despised,  dishonored,  and  betrayed, 
That  pride  is  past,  those  steps  are  stayed. 

1  The  lonians  and  Carians  were  faithful  auxiliaries  of  the  Egyptian 
kings,  from  the  beginning  of  the  reign  of  Psammenitus.  The  helmet 
crest  was  invented  \>y  the  Carians. 


THE  TEARS  OF  PSAMMENITVS.  27? 

Oh !  would  I  were  as  those  who  sleep 

In  yonder  island  lone  and  low.1 
Beside  whose  shore,  obscure  and  deep, 

Sepulchral  waters  flow, 
And  wake,  with  beating  pause,  like  breath, 
Their  pyramidal  place  of  death  ; 
For  it  is  cool  and  quiet  there, 

And  on  the  calm  frankincensed  clay 
Passes  no  change,  and  this  despair 

Shrinks  like  the  baffled  worm,  their  prey 
Alike  impassive.     I  forget 

The  thoughts  of  him  who  sent  ye  here  : 
Bear  back  these  words,  and  say,  though  yet 

The  shade  of  this  unkingly  fear 

Hath  power  upon  my  brow,  no  tear 
Hath  quenched  the  curse  within  mine  eyes, 
And  by  that  curse's  fire, 

I  see  the  doom  that  shall  possess 
His  hope,  his  passion,  his  desire, 

His  life,  his  strength,  his  nothingness. 
I  see  across  the  desert  led,a 

A  plumed  host,  on  whom  distress 
Of  fear  and  famine  hath  been  shed  ; 

Before  them  lies  the  wilderness, 
Behind,  along  the  path  they  tread, 

If  death  make  desolation  less, 
There  lie  a  company  of  dead 

Who  cover  the  sand's  hot  nakedness 
With  a  cool  moist  bed  of  human  clay, 
A  soil  and  a  surface  of  slow  decay  : 

1  Under  the  hill,  on  which  the  pyramids  of  Cheops  were  erected, 
were  excavated  vaults,  around  which  a  stream  from  the  Nile  was  car- 
ried by  a  subterraneous  passage.     These  were  sepulchres  for  the  kings, 
and  Cheops  was  buried  there  himself. — HEROD.,  II.,  187. 

2  Cambyses,   after  subduing  Egypt,  led   an  army  against  the   Ethi- 
opians.    He  was  checked  by  famine.     Persisting  in  his  intention,  until 
the  troops  were  obliged  to  kill  every  tenth  man  for  food,  he  lost  the 
greater  part  of  his  army. 


280  $HE  TEARS  Off  P8AMMJENITU& 


Through  the  dense  and  lifeless  heap 

Irregularly  rise 

Short  shuddering  waves  that  heave  and  creep, 
Like  spasms  that  plague  the  guilty  sleep, 

And  where  the  motion  dies, 
A  moaning  mixes  with  the  purple  air, 
They  have  not  fallen  in  fight  ;  the  trace 

Of  war  hath  not  passed  by  ; 
There  is  no  fear  on  any  face, 

No  wrath  in  any  eye.  f 

They  have  laid  them  down  with  bows  unbent, 
With  swords  unfleshed  and  innocent, 
In  the  grasp  of  that  famine  whose  gradual  thrill 
Is  fiercest  to  torture  and  longest  to  kill  : 
Stretched  in  one  grave  on  the  burning  plain 
Coiled  together  in  knots  of  pain, 
Where  the  dead  are  twisted  in  skeleton  writhe, 
With  the  mortal  pangs  of  the  living  and  lithe  ; 
Soaking  into  the  sand  below, 

With  the  drip  of  the  death-dew,  heavy  and  slow,  :( 

Mocking  the  heaven  that  heard  no  prayer, 
With  the  lifted  hand  and  the  lifeless  stare  — 
With  the  lifted  hand,  whose  tremorless  clay, 
Though  powerless  to  combat,  is  patient  to  pray. 
And  the  glance  that  reflects,  in  its  vain  address, 
Heaven's  blue  from  its  own  white  lifelessness  ; 
Heaped  for  a  feast  on  the  venomous  ground, 
For  the  howling  jackal  and  herded  hound  ; 
With  none  that  can  watch  and  with  few  that  will  weep 
By  the  home  they  have  left,  or  the  home  they  must  keep 
The  strength  hath  been  lost  from  the  desolate  land, 
Once  fierce  as  the  simoon,  now  frail  as  the  sand. 
Not  unavenged  :  their  gathered  wrath 
Is  dark  along  its  desert  path, 
Nor  strength  shall  bide,  nor  madness  fly 
The  anger  of  their  agony, 

For  every  eye,  though  sunk  and  dim, 
And  every  lip,  in  its  last  need, 


THE  TEARS  OF  PSAMMENITTTS.  281 


Hath  looked  and  breathed  a  plague  on 
Whose  pride  they  fell  to  feed. 
The  dead  remember  well  and  long, 
And  they  are  cold  of  heart  and  strong, 
They  died,  they  cursed  thee  ;  not  in  vain  ! 
Along  the  river's  reedy  plain 
Behold  a  troop,  —  a  shadowy  crowd  — 
Of  godlike  spectres,  pale  and  proud  ; 
In  concourse  calm  they  move  and  meet, 
The  desert  billows  at  their  feet, 
Heave  like  the  sea  when,  deep  distressed, 
The  waters  pant  in  their  unrest. 
Kobed  in  a  whirl  of  pillared  sand 

Avenging  Ammon  glides  supreme  ;  * 
The  red  sun  smoulders  in  his  hand 

And  round  about  his  brows,  the  gleam, 
As  of  a  broad  and  burning  fold 

Of  purple  wind,  is  wrapt  and  rolled.2 
With  failing  frame  and  lingering  tread, 

Stern  Apis  follows,  wild  and  worn  ;  * 
The  blood  by  mortal  madness  shed, 

Frozen  on  his  white  limbs  anguish-torn. 
What  soul  can  bear,  what  strength  can  brook 
The  God-distress  that  fills  his  look  ? 
The  dreadful  light  of  fixed  disdain, 

1  Cambyses  sent  50,000  men  to  burn  the  temple  of  the  Egyptian  Jove 
or  Ammon.     They  plunged  into  the  desert  and  were  never  heard  of 
more.     It  was  reported  they  were  overwhelmed  with  sand. 

2  The  simoon  is  rendered  visible  by  its  purple  tone  of  color. 

3  The  god  Apis  occasionally  appeared  in  Egypt  under  the  form  of  a 
handsome  bull.     He  imprudently  visited  his  worshippers  immediately 
after  Cambyses  had  returned  from  Ethiopia  with  the  loss  of  his  army 
and  reason.     Cambyses  heard  of  his  appearance,  and  insisted  on  seeing 
him.     The   officiating  priests  introduced  Cambyses  to  the  bulL     The 
king  looked  with  little  respect  on  a  deity  whose  divinity  depended  on 
the  number  of  hairs  in  his  tail,  drew  his  dagger,  wounded  Apis  in  the 
thigh,  and  scourged  all  the  priests.     Apis  died.     From  that  time  the  in- 
sanity of  Cambyses  became  evident,  and  he  was  subject  to  the  violent 
and  torturing  passions  described  in  the  succeeding  lines. 


282  THE  TEARS  OF  PSAMMEN1TUS. 

The  fainting  wrath,  the  flashing  pain 
Bright  to  decree  or  to  confess 
Another's  fate — its  own  distress — 
A  mingled  passion  and  appeal, 
Dark  to  inflict  and  deep  to  feeL 

Who  are  these  that  flitting  follow 
Indistinct  and  numberless  ? 

As  through  the  darkness,  cold  and  hollow, 
Of  some  hopeless  dream,  there  press 
Dim,  delirious  shapes  that  dress 
Their  white  limbs  with  folds  of  pain  ; 
See  the  swift  mysterious  train — 

Forms  of  fixed,  embodied  feeling, 
Fixed,  but  in  a  fiery  trance, 
Of  wildering  mien  and  lightning  glance, 

Each  its  inward  power  revealing 
Through  its  quivering  countenance ; 
Visible  living  agonies, 

Wild  with  everlasting  motion, 
Memory  with  her  dark  dead  eyes, 
Tortured  thoughts  that  useless  rise, 

Late  remorse  and  vain  devotion, 
Dreams  of  cruelty  and  crime, 
Unmoved  by  rage,  untamed  by  time, 
Of  fierce  design,  and  fell  delaying, 

Quenched  affection,  strong  despair, 
Wan  disease,  and  madness  playing 

With  her  own  pale  hair. 
The  last,  how  woeful  and  how  wild ! 

Enrobed  with  no  diviner  dread 
Than  that  one  smile,  so  sad,  so  mild, 

Worn  by  the  human  dead  ; 
A  spectre  thing,  whose  pride  of  power 

Is  vested  in  its  pain 
Becoming  dreadful  in  the  hour 

When  what  it  seems  was  slain. 
Bound  with  the  chill  that  checks  the  sense, 

It  moves  in  spasm-like  spell : 


THE  TWO  PATHS.  283 

It  walks  in  that  dead  impotence, 

How  weak,  how  terrible  ! 
Cambyses,  when  thy  summoned  hour 
Shall  pause  on  Ecbatana's  Tower, 
Though  barbed  with  guilt,  and  swift,  and  fierce, 
Unnumbered  pangs  thy  soul  shall  pierce 
The  last,  the  worst  thy  heart  can  prove, 

Must  be  that  brother's  look  of  love  ; l 
That  look  that  once  shone  but  to  bless, 
Then  changed,  how  mute,  how  merciless ! 
His  blood  shall  bathe  thy  brow,  his  pain 
Shall  bind  thee  with  a  burning  chain, 
His  arms  shall  drag,  his  wrath  shall  thrust 
Thy  soul  to  death,  thy  throne  to  dust ; 
Thy  memory  darkened  with  disgrace, 
Thy  kingdom  wrested  from  thy  race, a 
Condemned  of  God,  accursed  of  men, 
Lord  of  my  grief,  remember  then, 
The  tears  of  him — who  will  not  weep  again. 


THE  TWO  PATHS. 


THE  paths  of  life  are  rudely  laid 
Beneath  the  blaze  of  burning  skies  ; 

Level  and  cool,  in  cloistered  shade, 
The  church's  pavement  lies. 

Along  the  sunless  forest  glade 

Its  gnarled  roots  are  coiled  like  crime, 

1  Cambyses  caused  his  brother  Smerdis  to  be  slain  ;  suspecting  him  of 
designs  on  the  throne.  This  deed  he  bitterly  repented  of  on  his  death- 
bed, being  convinced  of  the  innocence  of  his  brother. 

1  Treacherously  seized  by  Smerdis  the  Magus,  afterwards  attained  by 
Darius  Hystaspes,  through  the  instrumentality  of  his  groom.  Cambysea 
died  in  the  Syrian  Ecbatana,  of  a  wound  accidentally  received  in  tb.9 
part  of  the  thigh  where  he  had  wounded  Apis. 


284  THE  TWO  PATHS. 

Where  glows  the  grass  with  freshening  blade, 
Thine  eyes  may  track  the  serpent  slime  ; 

But  there  thy  steps  are  unbetrayed, 
The  serpent  waits  a  surer  time. 

n. 

The  fires  of  earth  are  fiercely  blent, 

Its  suns  arise  with  scorching  glow  ; 
The  church's  light  hath  soft  descent, 

And  hues  like  God's  own  bow. 
The  brows  of  men  are  darkly  bent, 

Their  lips  are  wreathed  with  scorn  and  guflo  \ 
But  pure,  and  pale,  and  innocent 

The  looks  that  light  the  marble  aisle — 
From  angel  eyes,  in  love  intent, 

And  lips  of  everlasting  smile. 


in. 


Lady,  the  fields  of  earth  are  wide, 

And  tempt  an  infant's  foot  to  stray : 
Oh !  lead  thy  loved  one's  steps  aside, 

Where  the  white  altar  lights  his  way. 
Around  his  path  shall  glance  and  glide, 

A  thousand  shadows  false  and  wild  ; 
Oh  !  lead  him  to  that  surer  Guide, 

Than  sire,  serene,  or  mother  mild, 
Whose  childhood  quelled  the  age  of 

Whose  Godhead  called  the  little  child. 

IV. 

So  when  thy  breast  of  love  untold, 
That  warmed  his  sleep  of  infancy, 

Shall  only  make  the  marble  cold, 
Beneath  his  aged  knee  ; 

From  its  steep  throne  of  heavenly  gold 
Thy  soul  shall  stoop  to  see 


THE  OLD  WATER-WHEEL.  285 

His  grief,  that  cannot  be  controlled, 

Turning  to  God  from  thee — 
Cleaving  with  prayer  the  cloudy  fold, 

That  veils  the  sanctuary. 


THE  OLD  WATER-  WHEEL. 

IT  lies  beside  the  river  ;  where  its  marge 
Is  black  with  many  an  old  and  oarless  barge, 
And  yeasty  filth,  and  leafage  wild  and  rank 
Stagnate  and  batten  by  the  crumbling  bank. 

Once,  slow  revolving  by  the  industrious  mill, 
It  murmured,  only  on  the  Sabbath  still ; 
And  evening  winds  its  pulse-like  beating  bore 
Down  the  soft  vale,  and  by  the  winding  shore. 

Sparkling  around  its  orbed  motion  flew, 
With  quick,  fresh  fall,  the  drops  of  dashing  dew, 
Through  noon-tide  heat  that  gentle  rain  was  flung, 
And  verdant  round  the  summer  herbage  sprung. 

Now  dancing  light  and  sounding  motion  cease, 
In  these  dark  hours  of  cold  continual  peace  ; 
Through  its  black  bars  the  unbroken  moonlight  flows. 
And  dry  winds  howl  about  its  long  repose  ; 

And  mouldering  lichens  creep,  and  mosses  grey 
Cling  round  its  arms,  in  gradual  decay, 
Amidst  the  hum  of  men — which  doth  not  suit 
That  shadowy  circle,  motionless  and  mute. 

So,  by  the  sleep  of  many  a  human  heart, 
The  crowd  of  men  may  bear  their  busy  part, 
Where  withered,  or  forgotten,  or  subdued, 
Its  noisy  passions  have  left  solitude, 


280  THE  DEPARTED  LIGHT. 

Ah,  little  can  they  trace  the  hidden  truth ! 
What  waves  have  moved  it  in  the  vale  of  youth  t 
And  little  can  its  broken  chords  avow 
How  they  once  sounded.     All  is  silent  now. 


THE  DEPARTED  LIGHT. 

THOU  know'st  the  place  where  purple  rocks  receive 

The  deepened  silence  of  the  pausing  stream  ; 
And  myrtles  and  white  olives  interweave 

Their  cool  grey  shadows  with  the  azure  gleam 
Of  noontide  ;  and  pale  temple  columns  cleave 

Those  waves  with  shafts  of  light  (as  through  a  dream 
Of  sorrow,  pierced  the  memories  of  loved  hours — 

Cold  and  fixed  thoughts  that  will  not  pass  away) 
All  chapleted  with  wreaths  of  marble  flowers, 

Too  calm  to  live, — too  lovely  to  decay. 
And  hills  rise  round,  pyramidal  and  vast, 

Like  tombs  built  of  blue  heaven,  above  the  clay 
Of  those  who  worshipped  here,  whose  steps  have  past 

To  silence — leaving  o'er  the  waters  cast 
The  light  of  their  religion.     There,  at  eve, 

That  gentle  dame  would  walk,  when  night-birds  make 
The  starry  myrtle  blossoms  pant  and  heave 

With  waves  of  ceaseless  song  ;  she  would  awake 
The  lulled  air  with  her  kindling  thoughts,  and  leave 

Her  voice's  echo  on  the  listening  lake  ; 
The  quenched  rays  of  her  beauty  would  deceive 

Its  depths  into  quick  joy.     Hill,  wave,  and  brake 
Grew  living  as  she  moved  :  I  did  believe 

That  they  were  lovely,  only  for  her  sake  ; 
But  now — she  is  not  there — at  least,  the  chill 

Hath  passed  upon  her  which  no  sun  shall  break. 
Stranger,  my  feet  must  shun  the  lake  and  hill : — 
fcjeek  them, — but  dream  not  they  are  lovely  still. 


AGONIA.  287 


AGONIA. 

WHEN  our  delight  is  desolate, 

And  hope  is  overthrown  ; 
And  when  the  heart  must  bear  the  weight 

Of  its  own  love  alone  ; 

And  when  the  soul,  whose  thoughts  are  deep, 

Must  guard  them  unrevealed, 
And  feel  that  it  is  full,  but  keep 

That  fullness  calm  and  sealed ; 

When  love's  long  glance  is  dark  with  pain— 

With  none  to  meet  or  cheer  ; 
And  words  of  woe  are  wild  in  vain 

For  those  who  cannot  hear  ; 

When  earth  is  dark  and  memory 

Pale  in  the  heaven  above, — 
The  heart  can  bear  to  lose  its  joy, 

But  not  to  cease  to  love. 

But  what  shall  guide  the  choice  within, 

Of  guilt  or  agony, — 
When  to  remember  is  to  sin, 

And  to  forget — to  die  1 


288  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  ARION 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  AEION. 

lu  \tyelas  ft.opoi'  drjSuvos 

*        *        *  KVKVOV    SlKIJV 

T&v  SffTATOV  jUe'AifcKTa  Oavacnuoy  y6ov. 

THE  circumstances  which  led  to  the  introduction  of  Arion  to  his  Dol- 
phin are  differently  related  by  Herodotus  and  Lucian.  Both  agree  that 
he  was  a  musician  of  the  highest  order,  born  at  Methymna,  in  the  island 
of  Lesbos,  and  that  he  acquired  fame  and  fortune  at  the  court  of  Peri- 
ander  of  Corinth.  Herodotus  affirms  that  he  became  desirous  of  seeing 
Italy  and  Sicily,  and  having  made  a  considerable  fortune  in  those  coun- 
tries, hired  a  Corinthian  vessel  to  take  him  back  to  Corinth.  Whem 
halfway  over  the  gulf  the  mariners  conceived  the  idea  of  seizing  the 
money  and  throwing  the  musician  into  the  sea. 

Arion  started  several  objections,  but  finding  that  they  were  overruled, 
requested  that  he  might  be  permitted  to  sing  them  a  song. 

Permission  being  granted  he  wreathed  himself  and  his  harp  with 
flowers,  sang,  says  Lucian,  in  the  sweetest  way  in  the  world,  and  leaped 
into  the  sea. 

The  historian  proceeds  with  less  confidence  to  state  that  a  dolphin 
carried  him  safe  ashore.  Lucian  agrees  with  this  account  except  in 
one  particular :  he  makes  no  mention  of  the  journey  to  Sicily,  and  sup- 
poses Arion  to  have  been  returning  from  Corinth  to  his  native  Lesbos 
when  the  attack  was  made  on  him.  I  have  taken  him  to  Sicily  with 
Herodotus,  but  prefer  sending  him  straight  home.  He  is  more  interest- 
ing returning  to  his  country  than  paying  his  respects  at  the  court  of 
Corinth. 


Look  not  upon  me  thus  impatiently, 
Ye  children  of  the  deep  ; 

My  fingers  fail,  and  tremble  as  they  try 
To  stir  the  silver  sleep  with  song, 

Which  underneath  the  surge  ye  sweep, 

These  lulled  and  listless  chords  must  keep- 
Alas — how  long ! 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  ARION.  289 

n. 

The  salt  sea  wind  has  touched  my  harp  ;  its  thrill 
Follows  the  passing  plectrum,  low  and  chill, 
Woe  for  the  wakened  pulse  of  Ocean's  breath, 
That  injures  these  with  silence — me  with  death. 
Oh  wherefore  stirred  the  wind  on  Pindu's  chain, 
When  joyful  morning  called  me  to  the  main  ? 
Flashed  the  keen  oars — our  canvas  filled  and  free, 
Shook  like  white  fire  along  the  purple  sea, 
Fast  from  the  helm  the  shattering  surges  flew, 
Pale  gleamed  our  path  along  their  cloven  blue ; 
And  orient  path,  wild  wind  and  purple  wave, 
Pointed  and  urged  and  guided  to  the  grave. 


ra. 

Ye  winds  !  by  far  Methymna's  steep, 

I  loved  your  voices  long, 
And  gave  your  spirits  power  to  keep 

Wild  syllables  of  song, 
When,  folded  hi  the  crimson  shade 

That  veils  Olympus'  cloud-like  whiteness, 
The  slumber  of  your  life  was  laid 

In  the  lull  of  its  own  lightness, 
Poised  on  the  voiceless  ebb  and  flow 
Of  the  beamy-billowed  summer  snow, 
Still  at  my  call  ye  came — 
Through  the  thin  wreaths  of  undulating  flame 
That  panting  in  their  heavenly  home, 
With  crimson  shadows  flush  the  foam 
Of  Adramyttium,  round  the  ravined  hill, 
Awakened  with  one  deep  and  living  thrill, 
Ye  came  and  with  your  steep  descent, 
The  hollow  forests  waved  and  bent, 

Their  leaf-lulled  echoes  caught  the  winding  call. 
Through  incensed  glade  and  rosy  dell, 
Mixed  with  the  breath-like  pause  and  swell 

Of  waters  following  in  eternal  fall, 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  ARION. 

In  azure  waves,  that  just  betray 

The  music  quivering  in  their  spray 

Beneath  its  silent  seven-fold  arch  of  day 
High  in  pale  precipices  hung 
The  lifeless  rocks  of  rigid  marble  rung, 

Waving  the  cedar  crests  along  their  brows  sublime, 
Swift  ocean  heard  beneath,  and  flung 

His  tranced  and  trembling  waves  in  measured  time 

Along  his  golden  sands  with  faintly  falling  chime. 

rv. 

Alas  !  had  ye  forgot  the  joy  I  gave, 

That  ye  did  hearken  to  my  call  this  day  ? 

Oh !  had  ye  slumbered — when  your  sleep  could  save, 
I  would  have  fed  you  with  sweet  sound  for  aye, 
Now  ye  have  risen  to  bear  my  silent  soul  away. 

v. 

I  heard  ye  murmur  through  the  Etnaen  caves, 

When  joyful  dawn  had  touched  the  topmost  dome, 
I  saw  ye  light  along  the  mountain  waves 

Far  to  the  east,  your  beacon  fires  of  foam, 
And  deemed  ye  rose  to  bear  your  weary  minstrel  home. 
Home  ?  it  shall  be  that  home  indeed, 
Where  tears  attend  and  shadows  lead 

The  steps  of  man's  return  ; 
Home !  woe  is  me,  no  home  I  need, 

Except  the  urn. 

Behold — beyond  these  billows'  flow, 
I  see  Methymna's  mountains  glow  ; 
Long,  long  desired,  their  peaks  of  light 
Flash  on  my  sickened  soul  and  sight, 
And  heart  and  eye  almost  possess 
Their  vales  of  long  lost  pleasantness  ; 
But  eye  and  heart,  before  they  greet 
That  land,  shall  cease  to  burn  and  beat. 
I  see,  between  the  sea  and  land, 
The  winding  belt  of  golden  sand ; 


THE  LAST  SONG  OP  AKIOtf.  291 

But  never  may  my  footsteps  reach 
The  brightness  of  that  Lesbian  beach, 
Unless,  with  pale  and  listless  limb, 
Stretched  by  the  water's  utmost  brim, 
Naked,  beneath  my  native  sky, 
With  bloodless  brow,  and  darkened 
An  unregarded  ghastly  heap, 
For  bird  to  tear  and  surge  to  sweep, 
Too  deadly  calm — too  coldly  weak 
To  reck  of  billow,  or  of  beak. 


n, 

My  native  isle  !     When  I  have  been 

Reft  of  my  love,  and  far  from  thee 
My  dreams  have  traced,  my  soul  hath  seen 

Thy  shadow  on  the  sea, 
And  waked  in  joy,  but  not  to  seek 
Thy  winding  strand,  or  purple  peak. 
For  strand  and  peak  had  waned  away 
Before  the  desolating  day, 

On  Aero-Corinth  redly  risen, 
That  burned  above  .ZEgina's  bay, 

And  laughed  upon  my  palace  prison. 
How  soft  on  other  eyes  it  shone, 
When  light,  and  land,  were  all  their  own, 
I  looked  across  the  eastern  brine, 
I  knew  that  morning  was  not  mine. 

vn. 

But  thou  art  near  me  now,  dear  isle  ! 
And  I  can  see  the  lightning  smile 
By  thy  broad  beach,  that  flashes  free 
Along  the  pale  lips  of  the  sea. 
Near,  nearer,  louder,  breaking,  beating, 

The  billows  fall  with  ceaseless  shower ; 
It  comes, — dear  isle  ! — our  hour  of  meeting- 

Oh  God !  across  the  soft  eyes  of  the  hour 


292  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  AEION. 

Is  thrown  a  black  and  blinding  veil ; 
Its  steps  are  swift,  its  brow  is  pale, 
Before  its  face,  behold — there  stoop, 
From  their  keen  wings,  a  darkening  troop 
Of  forms  like  unto  it — that  fade 
Far  in  unfathomable  shade, 
Confused,  and  limitless,  and  hollow, 
It  comes,  but  there  are  none  that  follow,— 
It  pauses,  as  they  paused,  but  not 

Like  them  to  pass  away, 
For  I  must  share  its  shadowy  lot, 

And  walk  with  it,  where  wide  and  grey, 
That  caverned  twilight  chokes  the  day, 
And,  underneath  the  horizon's  starless  line, 
Shall  drink,  like  feeble  dew,  its  life  and  mine. 

vin. 

Farewell,  sweet  harp !  for  lost  and  quenched 

Thy  swift  and  sounding  fire  shall  be  ; 
And  these  faint  lips  be  mute  and  blenched, 

That  once  so  fondly  followed  thee. 
Oh  !  deep  within  the  winding  shell 
The  slumbering  passions  haunt  and  dwell, 
As  memories  of  its  ocean  tomb 
Still  gush  within  its  murmuring  gloom  ; 
But  closed  the  lips  and  faint  the  fingers 

Of  fiery  touch,  and  woven  words, 
To  rouse  the  flame  that  clings  and  lingers 

Along  the  loosened  chords. 
Farewell !  thou  silver-sounding  lute, 

I  must  not  wake  thy  wildness  more, 
When  I  and  thou  lie  dead,  and  mute, 

Upon  the  hissing  shore. 

rx. 

The  sounds  I  summon  fall  and  roll 
In  waves  of  memory  o'er  my  soul ; 


THE  LAST  SONG   OF  AR10N.  293 

And  there  are  words  I  should  not  hear, 
That  murmur  in  my  dying  ear, 
Distant  all,  but  full  and  clear, 
Like  a  child's  footstep  in  its  fear, 

Falling  in  Colono's  wood 
When  the  leaves  are  sere  ; 

And  waves  of  black,  tumultuous  blood 
Heave  and  gush  about  my  heart, 

Each  a  deep  and  dismal  mirror 
Flashing  back  its  broken  part 

Of  visible,  and  changeless  terror  ; 
And  fiery  foam-globes  leap  and  shiver 
Along  that  crimson,  living  river  ; 

Its  surge  is  hot,  its  banks  are  black, 
And  weak,  wild  thoughts  that  once  were  bright, 
And  dreams,  and  hopes  of  dead  delight, 

Drift  on  its  desolating  track, 
And  lie  along  its  shore  : 

Oh  !  who  shall  give  that  brightness  back, 
Or  those  lost  hopes  restore  ? 

Or  bid  that  light  of  dreams  be  shed 

On  the  glazed  eye-balls  of  the  dead? 


That  light  of  dreams  !  my  soul  hath  cherished 
One  dream  too  fondly,  and  too  long, 

Hope — dread — desire — delight  have  perished, 
And  every  thought  whose  voice  was  strong 
To  curb  the  heart  to  good  or  wrong ; 

But  that  sweet  dream  is  with  me  still 

Like  the  shade  of  an  eternal  hill, 
Cast  on  a  calm  and  narrow  lake, 

That  hath  no  room  except  for  it — and  heaven : 
It  doth  not  leave  me,  nor  forsake  ; 

And  often  with  my  soul  hath  striven 

To  quench  or  calm  its  worst  distress^ 

Its  silent  sense  of  loneliness. 
And  must  it  leave  me  now  ? 


294  THE  LAST  SONG   OF  ABION. 

Alas !  dear  lady,  where  my  steps  must  tread, 

"What  veils  the  echo  or  the  glow 
That  word  can  leave,  or  smile  can  shed, 
Among  the  soundless,  lifeless  dead  ? 
Soft  o'er  my  brain  the  lulling  dew  shall  fall, 
"While  I  sleep  on,  beneath  the  heavy  sea, 
Coldly, — I  shall  not  hear  though  thou  shouldst  call 
Deeply, — I  shall  not  dream, — not  e'en  of  thee. 

XL 

And  when  my  thoughts  to  peace  depart 

Beneath  the  unpeaceful  foam, 
"Wilt  thou  remember  him,  whose  heart 

Hath  ceased  to  be  thy  home? 
Nor  bid  thy  breast  its  love  subdue 
For  one  no  longer  fond  nor  true  ; 
Thine  ears  have  heard  a  treacherous  tale, 
My  words  were  false, — my  faith  was  frail. 
I  feel  the  grasp  of  death's  white  hand 

Laid  heavy  on  my  brow, 
And  from  the  brain  those  fingers  brand, 
The  chords  of  memory  drop  like  sand, 
And  faint  in  muffled  murmurs  die, 
The  passionate  word,  the  fond  reply, 

The  deep  redoubled  vow. 
Oh  !  dear  Ismene  flushed  and  bright, 

Although  thy  beauty  burn, 
It  cannot  wake  to  love's  delight 
The  crumbling  ashes  quenched  and  white, 
Nor  pierce  the  apathy  of  night 

Within  the  marble  urn  : 
Let  others  wear  the  chains  I  wore, 

And  worship  at  the  unhonored 
For  me,  the  chain  is  strong  no  more, 

No  more  the  voice  divine  : 
Go  forth,  and  look  on  those  that  live, 
And  robe  thee  with  the  love  they  give, 

But  think  no  more  of  mine ; 


THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA.  295 

Or  think  of  all  that  pass  thee  by, 
With  heedless  heart  and  unveiled  eye, 
That  none  can  love  thee  less  than  L 

xn. 

Farewell ;  but  do  not  grieve ;  thy  pain 

Would  seek  me  where  I  sleep, 
Thy  tears  would  pierce  like  rushing  rain, 

The  stillness  of  the  deep. 

Remember,  if  thou  wilt,  but  do  not  weep. 
Farewell,  beloved  hills,  and  native  isle. 
Farewell  to  earth's  delight,  to  heaven's  smile ; 
Farewell  to  sounding  air,  to  purple  sea  ; 
Farewell  to  light, — to  life, — to  love, — to  thee. 


THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA.1 


AMIDST  a  vale  of  springing  leaves, 

Where  spreads  the  vine  its  wandering  root, 
And  cumbrous  fall  the  autumnal  sheaves, 
And  olives  shed  their  sable  fruit, 
And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  never  mute, 
Make  of  young  boughs  and  pebbles  pure 

One  universal  lute, 

And  bright  birds,  through  the  myrtle  copse  obscure, 
Pierce  with  quick  notes,  and  plumage  dipped  in  dew, 
The  silence  and  the  shade  of  each  lulled  avenue. 

1  The  mountains  of  Carrara,  from  which  nearly  all  the  marble  now 
nsed  in  sculpture  is  derived,  form  by  far  the  finest  piece  of  hill  scenery 
I  know  in  Italy.  They  rise  out  of  valleys  of  exquisite  richness,  being 
themselves  singularly  desolate,  magnificent  in  form  and  noble  in  eleva- 
tion, but  without  forests  on  their  flanks  and  without  one  blade  of  gras« 
on  their  summits. 


296  THE  HILLS  OF  CARRAR& 

n. 

Far  in  the  depths  of  voiceless  skies, 

Where  calm  and  cold  the  stars  are  strewed, 
The  peaks  of  pale  Carrara  rise. 

Nor  sound  of  storm,  nor  whirlwind  rude, 
Can  break  their  chill  of  marble  solitude  ; 

The  crimson  lightnings  round  their  crest 
May  hold  their  fiery  feud — 

They  hear  not,  nor  reply  ;  their  chasmed  rest 
No  flowret  decks,  nor  herbage  green,  nor  breath 
Of  moving  thing  can  change  their  atmosphere  of  death. 


ra. 

But  far  beneath,  in  folded  sleep, 
Faint  forms  of  heavenly  life  are  laid, 

With  pale  brows  and  soft  eyes,  that  keep 
Sweet  peace  of  unawakened  shade, 

Whose  wreathed  limbs,  in  robes  of  rock  arrayed, 
Fall  like  white  waves  on  human  thought, 

In  fitful  dreams  displayed  ; 

Deep  through  their  secret  homes  of  slumber  sought, 
They  rise  immortal,  children  of  the  day, 
Gleaming  with  godlike  forms  on  earth,  and  her  decay. 


IV. 

Yes,  where  the  bud  hath  brightest  germ, 

And  broad  the  golden  blossoms  glow, 
There  glides  the  snake  and  works  the  worm 

And  black  the  earth  is  laid  below. 
Ah  !  think  not  thou  the  souls  of  men  to  know j 

By  outward  smiles  in  wildness  worn  ; 
The  words  that  jest  at  woe 

Spring  not  less  lightly,  though  the  heart  be  torn, 
The  mocking  heart,  that  scarcely  dares  confess 
Even  to  itself,  the  strength  of  its  own  bitterness. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE.  29' 

Nor  deem  that  they  whose  words  are  cold, 
Whose  brows  are  dark,  have  hearts  of  steel, 

The  couchant  strength,  untraced,  untold, 
Of  thoughts  they  keep  and  throbs  they  feel, 
May  need  an  answering  music  to  unseal, 

Who  knows  what  waves  may  stir  the  silent  sea, 
Beneath  the  low  appeal 

From  distant  shores,  of  winds  unfelt  by  thee  ? 

What  sounds  may  wake  within  the  winding  shell, 

Responsive  to  the  charm  of  those  who  touch  it  well  I 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE. 


"My  patent  of  nobility"  (said  Napoleon)  "dates  from  the  Battle  of 
Montenotte." 


SLOW  lifts  the  night  her  starry  host 

Above  the  mountain  chain 
That  guards  the  grey  Ligurian  coast, 

And  lights  the  Lombard  plain  ; 
That  plain,  that  softening  on  the  sight 
Lies  blue  beneath  the  balm  of  night, 
With  lapse  of  rivers  lulled,  that  glide 
In  lustre  broad  of  living  tide, 
Or  pause  for  hours  of  peace  beside 
The  shores  they  double,  and  divide, 
To  feed  with  heaven's  reverted  hue 
The  clustered  vine's  expanding  blue : 
With  crystal  flow,  for  evermore, 
They  lave  a  blood-polluted  shore  ; 
Ah !  not  the  snows,  whose  wreaths  renew 
Their  radiant  depth  with  stainless  dew, 
Can  bid  their  banks  be  pure,  or  bless 
The  guilty  land  with  holiness. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE. 

n. 

In  stormy  waves,  whose  wrath  can  reach 
The  rocks  that  back  the  topmost  beach, 
The  midnight  sea  falls  wild  and  deep 
Around  Savona's  marble  steep, 

And  Voltri's  crescent  bay. 
What  fiery  lines  are  these,  that  flash 
"Where  fierce  the  breakers  curl  and  crash, 

And  fastest  flies  the  spray  ? 
No  moon  has  risen  to  mark  the  night, 
Nor  such  the  flakes  of  phosphor  light 
That  wake  along  the  southern  wave, 
By  Baise's  cliff  and  Capri's  cave, 

Until  the  dawn  of  day : 
The  phosphor  flame  is  soft  and  green 
Beneath  the  hollow  surges  seen  ; 
But  these  are  dyed  with  dusky  red 
Far  on  the  fitful  surface  shed  ; 
And  evermore,  their  glance  between, 
The  mountain  gust  is  deeply  stirred 
"With  low  vibration,  felt,  and  heard, 
Which  winds  and  leaves  confuse,  in  vain, 
It  gathers  through  their  maze  again, 
Redoubling  round  the  rocks  it  smote, 
Till  falls  in  fear  the  night-bird's  note, 
And  every  sound  beside  is  still, 
But  plash  of  torrent  from  the  hill, 
And  murmur  by  the  branches  made 
That  bend  above  its  bright  cascade. 

ra. 

Hark,  hark !  the  hollow  Apennine 

Laughs  in  his  heart  afar  ; 
Through  all  his  vales  he  drinks  like  wine 

The  deepening  draught  of  war  ; 
For  not  with  doubtful  burst,  or  slow, 
That  thunder  shakes  his  breathless  snow, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE.  299 

But  ceaseless  rends,  with  rattling  stroke, 
The  veils  of  white  volcano-smoke 
That  o'er  Legino's  ridges  rest, 

And  writhe  in  Merla's  vale  : 
There  lifts  the  Frank  his  triple  crest, 

Crowned  with  its  plumage  pale, 
Though,  clogged  and  dyed  with  stains  of  death, 
It  scarce  obeys  the  tempest's  breath, 
And  darker  still,  and  deadlier  press 
The  war-clouds  on  its  weariness. 
Far  by  the  bright  Bormida's  banks 
The  Austrian  cheers  his  chosen  ranks, 
In  ponderous  waves,  that,  where  they  check 
Rise  o'er  their  own  tumultuous  wreck, 
Recoiling — crashing — gathering  still 
In  rage  around  that  Island  hill, 

Where  stand  the  moveless  Few — 
Few — fewer  as  the  moments  flit ; 
Though  shaft  and  shell  their  columns  split 

As  morning  melts  the  dew, 
Though  narrower  yet  their  guarding  grows, 
And  hot  the  heaps  of  carnage  close, 
In  death's  faint  shade  and  fiery  shock, 
They  stand,  one  ridge  of  living  rock, 
Which  steel  may  rend,  and  wave  may  wear, 
And  bolt  may  crush,  and  blast  may  tear, 

But  none  can  strike  from  its  abiding. 
The  flood,  the  flash,  the  steel,  may  bear 
Perchance  destruction — not  despair, 

And  death — but  not  dividing. 
What  matter  ?  while  their  ground  they  keep, 
Though  here  a  column — there  an  heap — 
Though  these  in  wrath — and  those  in  sleep, 

If  all  are  there. 

IV. 

Charge,  D'Argenteau  !    Fast  flies  the  night, 
The  snows  look  wan  with  inward  light : 


300  THE  BATTLE  OP  MONTENOTTE. 

Charge,  D'Argenteau !     Thy  kingdom's  power 
Wins  not  again  this  hope,  nor  hour  : 
The  force — the  fate  of  France  is  thrown 

Behind  those  feeble  shields, 
That  ridge  of  death-defended  stone 

Were  worth  a  thousand  fields  ! 
In  vain — in  vain  !     Thy  broad  array 
Breaks  on  their  front  of  spears  like  spray 
Thine  hour  hath  struck — the  dawning  red 
Is  o'er  thy  wavering  standards  shed  ; 
A  darker  dye  thy  folds  shall  take 
Before  its  utmost  beams  can  break. 

v. 

Out  of  its  Eastern  fountains 

The  river  of  day  is  drawn, 
And  the  shadows  of  the  mountains 

March  downward  from  the  dawn, — 
The  shadows  of  the  ancient  hills 

Shortening  as  they  go, 
Down  beside  the  dancing  rills 

Wearily  and  slow. 
The  morning  wind  the  mead  hath  kissed  ; 

It  leads  in  narrow  lines 
The  shadows  of  the  silver  mist, 

To  pause  among  the  pines. 
But  where  the  sun  is  calm  and  hot, 

And  where  the  wind  hath  peace, 
There  is  a  shade  that  pauseth  not, 

And  a  sound  that  doth  not  cease. 
The  shade  is  like  a  sable  river 

Broken  with  sparkles  bright ; 
The  sound  is  like  dead  leaves  that  shiver 

In  the  decay  of  night. 

VI. 

Together  come  with  pulse-like  beat 
The  darkness,  and  the  tread  ; 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE.  301 

A  motion  calm — a  murmur  sweet, 

Yet  deathful  both,  and  dread  ; 
Poised  on  the  hill,  a  fringed  shroud, 

It  wavered  like  the  sea, 
Then  clove  itself,  as  doth  a  cloud, 

In  sable  columns  three. 
They  fired  no  shot — they  gave  no  sign, — 

They  blew  no  battle  peal, 
But  down  they  came,  in  deadly  line, 

Like  whirling  bars  of  steel. 
As  fades  the  forest  from  its  place, 

Beneath  the  lava  flood, 
The  Austrian  host,  before  their  face, 

Was  melted  into  blood  : 
They  moved,  as  moves  the  solemn  night, 

With  lulling,  and  release, 
Before  them,  all  was  fear  and  flight, 

Behind  them,  all  was  peace  : 
Before  them  flashed  the  roaring  glen 

With  bayonet  and  brand  ; 
Behind  them  lay  the  wrecks  of  men, 

Like  sea- weed  on  the  sand. 


vn. 

But  still,  along  the  cumbered  heath, 

A  vision  strange  and  fair 
Did  fill  the  eyes  that  failed  in  death, 

And  darkened  in  despair  ; 
Where  blazed  the  battle  wild  and  hot 

A  youth,  deep-eyed  and  pale, 
Did  move  amidst  the  storm  of  shot, 

As  the  fire  of  God  through  hail, 
He  moved,  serene  as  spirits  are, 

And  dying  eyes  might  see 
Above  his  head  a  crimson  star 

Burning  continually. 
******* 


302  THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTK 


vm. 

With  bended  head,  and  breathless  tread, 

The  traveller  tracks  that  silent  shore, 
Oppressed  with  thoughts  that  seek  the  dead, 

And  visions  that  restore, 
Or  lightly  trims  his  pausing  bark, 
Where  lies  the  ocean  lulled  and  dark, 
Beneath  the  marble  mounds  that  stay 
The  strength  of  many  a  bending  bay, 
And  lace  with  silver  lines  the  flow 
Of  tideless  waters  to  and  fro, 

As  drifts  the  breeze,  or  dies. 
That  scarce  recalls  its  lightness,  left 
In  many  a  purple-curtained  cleft, 
Whence  to  the  softly  lighted  skies 
Low  flowers  lift  up  their  dark  blue  eyes, 
To  bring  by  fits  the  deep  perfume 
Alternate,  as  the  bending  bloom 

Diffuses  or  denies. 
Above,  the  slopes  of  mountain  shine, 
Where  glows  the  citron,  glides  the  vine, 
And  breathes  the  myrtle  wildly  bright, 
And  aloes  lift  their  lamps  of  light, 
And  ceaseless  sunbeams  clothe  the  calm 
Of  orbed  pine  and  vaulted  palm, 
Dark  trees,  that  sacred  order  keep, 
And  rise  in  temples  o'er  the  steep—- 
Eternal shrines,  whose  columned  shade 
Though  winds  may  shake,  and  frosts  may  fade, 
And  dateless  years  subdue, 
Is  softly  builded,  ever  new, 

By  angel  hands,  and  wears  the  dread 
And  stillness  of  a  sacred  place, 
A  sadness  of  celestial  grace, 

A  shadow,  God-inhabited. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE.  303 

IX. 

And  all  is  peace,  around,  above, 
The  air  all  balm — the  light  all  love, 
Enduring  love,  that  burns  and  broods 
Serenely  o'er  these  solitudes, 
Or  pours  at  intervals  a  part 
Of  Heaven  upon  the  wanderer's  heart, 
Whose  subjects  old  and  quiet  thought 
Are  open  to  be  touched  or  taught, 
By  mute  address  of  bud  and  beam 
Of  purple  peak  and  silver  stream — 
By  sounds  that  fall  at  nature's  choice, 
And  things  whose  being  is  their  voice, 
Innumerable  tongues  that  teach 

The  will  and  ways  of  God  to  men, 
In  waves  that  beat  the  lonely  beach, 

And  winds  that  haunt  the  homeless  glen, 
Where  they,  who  ruled  the  rushing  deep, 

The  restless  and  the  brave, 
Have  left  along  their  native  steep 

The  ruin,  and  the  grave. 


And  he  who  gazes  while  the  day 
Departs  along  the  boundless  bay, 
May  find  against  its  fading  streak 
The  shadow  of  a  single  peak, 

Seen  only  when  the  surges  smile, 
And  all  the  heaven  is  clear, 

That  sad  and  solitary  isle.1 
Where,  captive,  from  his  red  career, 
He  sank — who  shook  the  hemisphere, 

Then,  turning  from  the  hollow  sea, 
May  trace,  across  the  crimsoned  height 

»Elba. 


SG-t  THE  BATTLE  OF  MONTENOTTE. 

That  saw  his  earliest  victory, 
The  purple  rainbow's  resting  light, 
And  the  last  lines  of  storm  that  fade 
Within  the  peaceful  evening-shade. 


NOTES. 

STANZA  3. — Line  9. — That  o'er  Legino's  ridges  rest. 

The  Austrian  centre,  10,000  strong,  had  been  advanced  to  Montenott« 
in  order,  if  possible,  to  cut  asunder  the  French  force  which  was  following 
the  route  of  the  Corniche.  It  encountered  at  Montenotte,  only  Colonel 
Rampon,  at  the  head  of  1,200  men,  who,  retiring  to  the  redoubt  at 
Monte  Legino,  defended  it  against  the  repeated  attacks  of  the  Austrians 
until  nightfall — making  his  soldiers  swear  to  conquer  or  die.  The  Aus- 
trian General  Roccavina  was  severely  wounded,  and  his  successor,  D'Ar- 
genteau,  refused  to  continue  the  attack.  Napoleon  was  lying  at  Savona, 
but  set  out  after  sunset  with  the  divisions  of  Massena  and  Serruier,  and 
occupied  the  heights  at  Montenotte.  At  daybreak  the  Imperialists 
found  themselves  surrounded  on  all  sides,  and  were  totally  defeated, 
with  the  loss  of  two  thousand  prisoners,  and  above  one  thousand  killed 
and  wounded.  [April  12,  1796.] 

This  victory,  the  first  gained  by  Napoleon,  was  the  foundation  of  the 
success  of  the  Italian  campaign.  Had  Colonel  Rampon  been  compelled 
to  retire  from  Monte  Legiuo,  the  fate  of  the  world  would  probably  have 
been  changed. — Vide  Alison,  ch.  20. 

STANZA  7. — Line  6. —  Where  lies  the  ocean  lulled  and  dark. 

The  view  given  in  the  engraving,  though  not  near  the  scene  of  the 
battle,  is  very  characteristic  of  the  general  features  of  the  coast.  The 
ruins  in  the  centre  are  the  Chateau  de  Cornolet,  near  Mentoni  ;  the 
sharp  dark  promontory  running  out  beyond,  to  the  left,  is  the  Capo  St. 
Martin  ;  that  beyond  it  is  the  promontory  of  Monaco.  Behind  the  hills, 
on  the  right,  lies  the  Bay  of  Nice  and  the  point  of  Antibes.  The  dark 
hills  in  the  extreme  distance  rise  immediately  above  Frejus.  Among 
them  winds  the  magnificent  Pass  de  L'Esterelle,  which,  for  richness  of 
southern  forest  scenery,  and  for  general  grace  of  mountain  outline,  sur- 
passes anything  on  the  Corniche  itself. 

STANZA  9. — Line  7. — That  solitary  isle. 

Elba  is  said  to  be  visible  from  most  of  the  elevated  points  of  this  coast. 
From  the  citadel  of  Genoa  I  have  seen  what  was  asserted  to  be  Elba.  I 
believe  it  to  have  been  Corsica. 


A  WALK  IN  CHAMOUNL 


A  WALK  m  CHAMOUNL 

TOGETHER  on  the  valley,  white  and  sweet, 

The  dew  and  silence  of  the  morning  lay  : 
Only  the  tread  of  my  disturbing  feet 
Did  break  the  printed  shade  and  patient  beat 

The  crisped  stillness  of  the  meadow  way ; 
And  frequent  mountain  waters,  welling  up 

In  crystal  gloom  beneath  some  mouldering  stone, 
Curdled  in  many  a  flower-enamelled  cup 

Whose  soft  and  purple  border,  scarcely  blown, 

Budded  beneath  their  touch,  and  trembled  to  their  tone. 

The  fringed  branches  of  the  swinging  pines 

Closed  o'er  my  path  ;  a  darkness  in  the  sky, 
That  barred  its  dappled  vault  with  rugged  lines, 
And  silver  network,1 — interwoven  signs 

Of  dateless  age  and  deathless  infancy  ; 
Then  through  their  aisles  a  motion  and  a  brightness 

Kindled  and  shook — the  weight  of  shade  they  bore 
On  their  broad  arms,  was  lifted  by  the  lightness 

Of  a  soft,  shuddering  wind,  and  what  they  wore 

Of  jewelled  dew,  was  strewed  about  the  forest  floor. 
That  thrill  of  gushing  wind  and  glittering  rain 

Onward  amid  the  woodland  hollows  went, 
And  bade  by  turns  the  drooping  boughs  complain 
O'er  the  brown  earth,  that  drank  in  lightless  stain 

The  beauty  of  their  burning  ornament ; 
And  then  the  roar  of  an  enormous  river 

Came  on  the  intermittent  air  uplifted, 
Broken  with  haste,  I  saw  its  sharp  waves  shiver, 

And  its  wild  weight  in  white  disorder  drifted, 

Where  by  its  beaten  shore  the  rocks  lay  heaped  and  rifted. 

1  The  white  mosses  on  the  meleze,  when  the  tree  is  very  old,  are  sin- 
gularly beautiful,  resembling  frost-work  of  silver. 

9 


306  A  WALK  IN  CEAMOUNL 

But  yet  unshattered,  from  an  azure  arch  * 

Came  forth  the  nodding  waters,  wave  by  wave, 

In  silver  lines  of  modulated  march, 

Through  a  broad  desert,  which  the  frost- winds  parch 
Like  fire,  and  the  resounding  ice-falls  pave 

With  pallid  ruin — wastes  of  rock — that  share 
Earth's  calm  and  ocean's  fruitlessness.2 — Undone 

The  work  of  ages  lies, — through  whose  despair 
Their  swift  procession  dancing  in  the  sun, 
The  white  and  whirling  waves  pass  mocking  one  by  one. 

And  with  their  voice — unquiet  melody — 

Is  filled  the  hollow  of  their  mighty  portal, 
As  shells  are  with  remembrance  of  the  sea ; 
So  might  the  eternal  arch  of  Eden  be 

With  angels'  wail  for  those  whose  crowns  immortal 
The  grave  dust  dimmed  in  passing.     There  are  here, 

With  azure  wings,  and  scymitars  of  fire, 
Forms  as  of  Heaven,  to  guard  the  gate,  and  rear 

Their  burning  arms  afar, — a  boundless  choir 

Beneath  the  sacred  shafts  of  many  a  mountain  spire. 
Countless  as  clouds,  dome,  prism,  and  pyramid 

Pierced  through  the  mist  of  morning  scarce  withdrawn, 
Signing  the  gloom  like  beacon  fires,  half  hid 
By  storm — part  quenched  in  billows — or  forbid 

Their  function  by  the  fullness  of  the  dawn  : 
And  melting  mists  and  threads  of  purple  rain 

Fretted  the  fair  sky  where  the  east  was  red, 
Gliding  like  ghosts  along  the  voiceless  plain, 

In  rainbow  hues  around  its  coldness  shed, 

Like  thoughts  of  loving  hearts  that  haunt  about  the  dead 

And  over  these,  as  pure  as  if  the  breath 

Of  God  had  called  them  newly  into  light, 
Free  from  all  stamp  of  sin,  or  shade  of  death, 
With  which  the  old  creation  travaileth, 

1  Source  of  the  Arveron. 

*  xupb.  &li>'  oAos  uTpvsToio. — IAIAA.   A' 


A  WALK  IN  C&AMOVNL 

Hose  the  white  mountains,  through  the  infinite 
Of  the  calm,  concave  heaven  ;  inly  bright 

With  lustre  everlasting  and  intense, 
Serene  and  universal  as  the  night, 

But  yet  more  solemn  with  pervading  sense 

Of  the  deep  stillness  of  omnipotence. 

Deep  stillness  !  for  the  throbs  of  human  thought, 
Count  not  the  lonely  night  that  pauses  here, 

And  the  white  arch  of  morning  findeth  not 

By  chasm  or  alp,  a  spirit,  or  a  spot, 

Its  call  can  waken,  or  its  beams  can  cheer  : 

There  are  no  eyes  to  watch,  no  lips  to  meet 
Its  messages  with  prayer — no  matin  bell 

Touches  the  delicate  air  with  summons  sweet ; — 
That  smoke  was  of  the  avalanche  ; '  that  knell 
Came  from  a  tower  of  ice  that  into  fragments  fell. 

Ah  !  why  should  that  be  comfortless — why  cold, 
Which  is  so  near  to  Heaven  ?    The  lowly  earth 

Out  of  the  blackness  of  its  charnel  mould 

Feeds  its  fresh  life,  and  lights  its  banks  with  gold ; 
But  these  proud  summits,  in  eternal  dearth, 
Whose  solitudes  nor  mourning  know,  nor  mirth, 

Rise  passionless  and  pure,  but  all  unblest : 
Corruption — must  it  root  the  brightest  birth  ? 

And  is  the  life  that  bears  its  fruitage  best, 

One  neither  of  supremacy  nor  rest  ? 

1  The  vapor  or  dust  of  dry  snow  which  rises  after  the  fall  of  a  large 
avalanche,  sometimes  looks  in  the  distance  not  unlike  the  smoke  of  a 
village. 


308  THE  OLD  SEAMAN. 


THE  OLD  SEAMAN. 


You  ask  me  why  mine  eyes  are  bent 

So  darkly  on  the  sea, 
While  others  watch  the  azure  hills 

That  lengthen  on  the  lee. 

n. 

The  azure  hills — they  soothe  the  sight 

That  fails  along  the  foam  ; 
And  those  may  hail  their  nearing  height 

Who  there  have  hope,  or  home. 

m. 

But  I  a  loveless  path  have  trod — 

A  beaconless  career ; 
My  hope  hath  long  been  all  with  God, 

And  all  my  home  is — here. 

rv. 

The  deep  by  day,  the  heaven  by  night, 
Roll  onward  swift  and  dark  ; 

Nor  leave  my  soul  the  dove's  delight, 
Of  olive  branch,  or  ark. 


v. 


For  more  than  gale,  or  gulf,  or  sand, 
I've  proved  that  there  may  be 

Worse  treachery  on  the  steadfast  land, 
Than  variable  sea. 


TEE  OLD  SEAMAN. 


A  danger  worse  than  bay  or  beach— 
A  falsehood  more  unkind — 

The  treachery  of  a  governed  speech, 
And  an  ungoverned  mind. 

vn. 

The  treachery  of  the  deadly  mart 
Where  human  souls  are  sold  ; 

The  treachery  of  the  hollow  heart 
That  crumbles  as  we  hold. 

vm. 

Those  holy  hills  and  quiet  lakes— 
Ah !  wherefore  should  I  find 

This  weary  fever-fit,  that  shakes 
Their  image  in  my  mind. 

IX. 

The  memory  of  a  streamlet's  din, 
Through  meadows  daisy-drest— 

Another  might  be  glad  therein, 
And  yet  I  cannot  rest. 


I  cannot  rest  unless  it  be 

Beneath  the  churchyard  yew  ; 

But  God,  I  think,  hath  yet  for  me 
More  earthly  work  to  do. 

XL 

And  therefore  with  a  quiet  will, 

I  breathe  the  ocean  air, 
And  bless  the  voice  that  calls  me  still 

To  wander  and  to  bear. 


31C  THE  ALPS. 

TTT. 

Let  others  seek  their  native  sod, 
Who  there  have  hearts  to  cheer ; 

My  soul  hath  long  been  given  to  God, 
And  all  my  home  is — here. 


THE  ALPS. 

SEEN   FBOM   MARENGO. 

THE  glory  of  a  cloud — without  its  wane ; 

The  stillness  of  the  earth — but  not  its  gloom ; 
The  loveliness  of  life — without  its  pain ; 

The  peace — but  not  the  hunger  of  the  tomb  I 
Ye  Pyramids  of  God  !  around  whose  bases 

The  sea  foams  noteless  in  his  narrow  cup  ; 

And  the  unseen  movements  of  the  earth  send  up 
A  murmur  which  your  lulling  snow  effaces 
Like  the  deer's  footsteps.     Thrones  imperishable  I 
About  whose  adamantine  steps  the  breath 
Of  dying  generations  vanisheth, 
Less  cognizable  than  clouds  ;  and  dynasties, 

Less  glorious  and  more  feeble  than  the  array 
Of  your  frail  glaciers,  unregarded  rise, 

Totter  and  vanish.     In  the  uncounted  day, 
When  earth  shall  tremble  as  the  trump  unwraps 

Their  sheets  of  slumber  from  the  crumbling  dead, 
And  the  quick,  thirsty  fire  of  judgment  laps 

The  loud  sea  from  the  hollow  of  his  bed — 
Shall  not  your  God  spare  you,  to  whom  He  gave 

No  share  nor  shadow  of  man's  crime,  or  fate  ; 

Nothing  to  render,  nor  to  expiate  ; 
Untainted  by  his  life — untrusted  with  his  grave  ? 


WRITTEN  AMONG   TBE  BASSES  ALPS.  311 


WEITTEN  AMONG  THE  BASSES  ALPS. 

[IT  is  not  among  mountain  scenery  that  human  intellect  usually  taket 
its  finest  temper,  or  receives  its  highest  development ;  but  it  is  at  least 
there  that  we  find  a  consistent  energy  of  mind  and  body,  compelled  by 
severer  character  of  agencies  to  be  resisted  and  hardships  to  be  endured  ; 
and  it  is  there  that  we  must  seek  for  the  last  remnants  of  patriarchal 
simplicity  and  patriotic  affection — the  few  rock  fragments  of  manly 
character  that  are  yet  free  from  the  lichenous  stain  of  over-civilization. 
It  must  always,  therefore,  be  with  peculiar  pain  that  we  find,  as  in  the 
district  to  which  the  following  verses  allude,  the  savageness  and  seclu- 
sion of  mountain  life,  without  its  force  and  faithfulness ;  and  all  the 
indolence  and  sensuality  of  the  most  debased  cities  of  Europe,  without 
the  polish  to  disguise,  the  temptation  to  excuse,  or  the  softness  of  natr 
Ural  scenery  to  harmonize  with  them.  ] 

"  Why  stand  ye  here  all  the  day  idle  ?  " 

HAVE  you  in  heaven  no  hope — on  earth  no  care- 
No  foe  in  hell — ye  things  of  stye  and  stall, 

That  congregate  like  flies,  and  make  the  air 
Rank  with  your  fevered  sloth — that  hourly  call 

The  sun,  which  should  your  servant  be,  to  bear 

Dread  witness  on  you,  with  uncounted  wane 

And  unregarded  rays,  from  peak  to  peak 

Of  piny-gnomoned  mountain  moved  in  vain  ? 

Behold,  the  very  shadows  that  ye  seek 
For  slumber,  write  along  the  wasted  wall 

Your  condemnation.     They  forget  not,  they, 
Their  ordered  function  and  determined  fall, 

Nor  useless  perish.     But  you  count  your  day 

By  sins,  and  write  your  difference  from  clay 

In  bonds  you  break  and  laws  you  disobey. 

God !  who  hast  given  the  rocks  their  fortitude, 

The  sap  unto  the  forests,  and  their  food 
And  vigor  to  the  busy  tenantry 
Of  happy  soulless  things  that  wait  on  Thee, 


>12  THE  Q LACIER. 

Hast  Thou  no  blessing  where  Thou  gav'st  Thy  blood  ? 

Wilt  Thou  not  make  Thy  fair  creation  whole  ? 
Behold  and  visit  this  Thy  vine  for  good — 

Breathe  in  this  human  dust  its  living  souL 


THE  GLACIER 

THE  mountains  have  a  peace  which  none  disturb — 

The  stars  and  clouds  a  course  which  none  restrain—* 
The  wild  sea-waves  rejoice  without  a  curb, 

And  rest  without  a  passion  ;  but  the  chain 
Of  Death,  upon  this  ghastly  cliff  and  chasm 

Is  broken  evermore,  to  bind  again, 

Nor  lulls  nor  looses.     Hark  !  a  voice  of  pain 
Suddenly  silenced  ; — a  quick  passing  spasm, 

That  startles  rest,  but  grants  not  liberty, — 

A  shudder,  or  a  struggle,  or  a  cry — 
And  then  sepulchral  stillness.     Look  on  us, 

God  !  who  hast  given  these  hills  their  place  of  pride, 
If  Death's  captivity  be  sleepless  thus, 

For  those  who  sink  to  it  uusanctitied. 


GIOTTO 

AND   HIS  WORKS  IN   PADUA 


AN  RXPLANATORY  NOTICE  OF  THE  SERIES  OF  WOODCUTS 

EXECUTED  FOR  THE  ARUNDEL  SOCIETY  AFTER 

THE  FRESCOES  IN  THE  ARENA  CHAPEL 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  following  notice  of  Giotto  has  not  been  drawn  up  with 
any  idea  of  attempting  a  history  of  his  life.  That  history 
could  only  be  written  after  a  careful  search  through  the  libra- 
ries of  Italy  for  all  documents  relating  to  the  years  during 
which  he  worked.  I  have  no  time  for  such  search,  or  even 
for  the  examination  of  well-known  and  published  materials ; 
and  have  therefore  merely  collected,  from  the  sources  nearest 
at  hand,  such  information  as  appeared  absolutely  necessary 
to  render  the  series  of  Plates  now  published  by  the  Arundel 
Society  intelligible  and  interesting  to  those  among  its  Mem- 
bers who  have  not  devoted  much  time  to  the  examination  of 
mediaeval  works.  I  have  prefixed  a  few  remarks  on  the  rela- 
tion of  the  art  of  Giotto  to  former  and  subsequent  efforts ; 
which  I  hope  may  be  useful  in  preventing  the  general  reader 
from  either  looking  for  what  the  painter  never  intended  to 
give,  or  missing  the  points  to  which  his  endeavours  were  really 
directed. 

J.  R 


GIOTTO 

AND    HIS    WOEKS  EN   PADUA. 


TOWARDS  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  century,  Enrico  Scro- 
vegno,  a  noble  Paduan,  purchased,  in  his  native  city,  the  re- 
mains of  the  Roman  Amphitheatre  or  Arena  from  the  family 
of  the  Delesmanini,  to  whom  those  remains  had  been  granted 
by  the  Emperor  Henry  HE.  of  Germany  in  1090.  For  the 
power  of  making  tbis  purchase,  Scrovegno  was  in  all  proba- 
bility indebted  to  his  father,  Reginald,  who,  for  his  avarice,  is 
placed  by  Dante  in  the  seventh  circle  of  the  Inferno,  and  re- 
garded apparently  as  the  chief  of  the  usurers  there,  since  he 
is  the  only  one  who  addresses  Dante.*  The  son,  having  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  Roman  ruin,  or  of  the  site  which  it  had 
occupied,  built  himself  a  fortified  palace  upon  the  ground, 
and  a  chapel  dedicated  to  the  Annunciate  Virgin. 

*  "  Noting  the  visages  of  some  who  lay 
Beneath  the  pelting  of  that  dolorous  fire, 
One  of  them  all  I  knew  not ;  but  perceived 
That  pendent  from  his  neck  each  bore  a  pouch, 
With  colours  and  with  emblems  various  marked, 
On  which  it  seemed  as  if  their  eye  did  feed. 
And  when  amongst  them  looking  round  I  came, 
A  yellow  purse  I  saw,  with  azure  wrought, 
That  wore  a  lion's  countenance  and  port. 
Then,  still  my  sight  pursuing  its  career, 
Another  I  beheld,  than  blood  more  red, 
A  goose  display  of  whiter  wing  than  curd. 
And  one  who  bore  a  jut  and  azure  sicine 
Pictured  on  his  white  scrip,  addressed  me  thus : 
What  dost  thou  in  this  deep  ?     Go  now  and  know, 
Since  yet  thou  livest,  that  my  neighbour  here, 


318  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

This  chapel,  built  in  or  about  the  year  1303,*  appears  to 
have  been  intended  to  replace  one  which  had  long  existed  on 
the  spot ;  and  in  which,  from  the  year  1278,  an  annual  festival 
had  been  held  on  Lady-day,  in  which  the  Annunciation  was 
represented  in  the  manner  of  our  English  mysteries  (and 
under  the  same  title  :  "  una  sacra  rappresentazione  di  quel 
mistero "),  with  dialogue,  and  music  both  vocal  and  instru- 
mental Scrovegno's  purchase  of  the  ground  could  not  be  al- 
lowed to  interfere  with  the  national  custom  ;  but  he  is  re- 
ported by  some  writers  to  have  rebuilt  the  chapel  with  greater 

Vitaliano,  on  my  left  shall  sit. 

A  Paduan  with  these  Florentines  am  I. 

Ofttimes  they  thunder  in  mine  ears,  exclaming, 

Oh  !  haste  that  noble  knight,  he  who  the  pouch 

With  the  three  goats  will  bring.  '  This  said,  he  writhed 

The  mouth,  and  lolled  the  tongue  out,  like  an  ox 

That  licks  his  nostrils."  Canto  xrii. 

This  passage  of  Gary's  Dante  is  not  quite  so  clear  as  that  translator's 
work  usually  is.  "  One  of  them  all  I  knew  not "  is  an  awkward  peri- 
phrasis for  "  I  knew  none  of  them."  Dante's  indignant  expression  of 
the  effect  of  avarice  in  withering  away  distinctions  of  character,  and  the 
prophecy  of  Scrovegno,  that  his  neighbour  Vitaliano,  then  living,  should 
soon  be  with  him,  to  sit  on  his  left  hand,  is  rendered  a  little  obscure  by 
the  transposition  of  the  word  "here."  Gary  has  also  been  afraid  of 
the  excessive  homeliness  of  Dante's  imagery  ;  "  whiter  wing  than  curd  " 
being  in  the  original  ' '  whiter  than  butter. "  The  attachment  of  the 
purse  to  the  neck,  as  a  badge  of  shame,  in  the  Inferno,  is  found  before 
Dante's  time  ;  as,  for  instance,  in  the  windows  of  Bourges  cathedral  (see 
Plate  iii.  of  MM.  Martin  and  Cahier's  beautiful  work).  And  the  build- 
ing of  the  Arena  Chapel  by  the  son,  as  a  kind  of  atonement  for  the  ava- 
rice of  the  father,  is  very  characteristic  of  the  period,  in  which  the  use 
of  money  for  the  building  of  churches  was  considered  just  as  meritori- 
ous as  its  unjust  accumulation  was  criminal.  I  have  seen,  in  a  MS. 
Church-service  of  the  thirteenth  century,  an  illumination  representing 
Church-Consecration,  illustrating  the  words,  ' '  Fundata  est  domus  Dom- 
ini supra  verticem  montium,"  surrounded  for  the  purpose  of  contrast, 
by  a  grotesque,  consisting  of  a  picture  of  a  miser's  death-bed,  a  demon 
drawing  his  soul  out  of  his  mouth,  while  his  attendants  are  searching  in 
his  chests  for  his  treasures. 

*  For  these  historical  details  I  am  chiefly  indebted  to  the  very  careful 
treatise  of  Selvatico,  Sutta  Cappdlina,  deyli  Scrovegni  nelff  Arena,  dt 
Padua,  1336, 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA.          319 

costliness,  in  order,  as  far  as  possible,  to  efface  the  memory  of 
his  father's  unhappy  life.  But  Federici,  in  his  history  of  the 
Cavalieri  Godenti,  supposes  that  Scrovegno  was  a  member  of 
that  body,  and  was  assisted  by  them  in  decorating  the  new 
edifice.  The  order  of  Cavalieri  Godenti  was  instituted  in  the 
beginning  of  the  thirteenth  century,  to  defend  the  "exist- 
ence," as  Selvatico  states  it,  but  more  accurately  the  dignity, 
of  the  Virgin,  against  the  various  heretics  by  whom  it  was  be- 
ginning to  be  assailed.  Her  knights  were  first  called  Cava- 
liers of  St.  Mary  ;  but  soon  increased  in  power  and  riches  to 
such  a  degree,  that,  from  their  general  habits  of  life,  they  re- 
ceived the  nickname  of  the  "Merry  Brothers."  Federici 
gives  forcible  reasons  for  his  opinion  that  the  Arena  Chapel 
was  employed  in  the  ceremonies  of  their  order  ;  and  Lord 
Lindsay  observes,  that  the  fulness  with  which  the  history  of 
the  Virgin  is  recounted  on  its  walls,  adds  to  the  plausibility 
of  his  supposition. 

Enrico  Scrovegno  was,  however,  towards  the  close  of  his 
life,  driven  into  exile,  and  died  at  Venice  in  1320.  But  he 
was  buried  in  the  chapel  he  had  built  ;  and  has  one  small 
monument  in  the  sacristy,  as  the  founder  of  the  buiding,  in 
which  he  is  represented  under  a  Gothic  niche,  standing,  with 
his  hands  clasped  and  his  eyes  raised  ;  while  behind  the  altar 
is  his  tomb,  on  which,  as  usual  at  the  period,  is  a  recumbent 
statue  of  him.  The  chapel  itself  may  not  unwarrantably  be 
considered  as  one  of  the  first  efforts  of  Popery  in  resistance  of 
the  Reformation  :  for  the  Reformation,  though  not  victorious 
till  the  sixteenth,  began  in  reality  in  the  thirteenth  century  ; 
and  the  remonstrances  of  such  bishops  as  our  own  Grossteste, 
the  martyrdoms  of  the  Albigenses  in  the  Dominican  crusades, 
and  the  murmurs  of  those  "  heretics  "  against  whose  aspersions 
of  the  majesty  of  the  Virgin  this  chivalrous  order  of  the 
Cavalieri  Godenti  was  instituted,  were  as  truly  the  signs  of 
the  approach  of  a  new  era  in  religion,  as  the  opponent  work 
of  Giotto  on  the  walls  of  the  Arena  was  a  sign  of  the  approach 
of  a  new  era  in  art. 

The  chapel  having  been  founded,  as  stated  above,  in  1303, 
Giotto  appears  to  have  been  summoned  to  decorate  its  in- 


320  GIOTTO  AND  HIU   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

terior  walls  about  the  year  1306, — summoned,  as  being  at 
that  time  the  acknowledged  master  of  painting  in  Italy.  By 
what  steps  he  had  risen  to  this  unquestioned  eminence  it  is 
difficult  to  trace  ;  for  the  records  of  his  life,  strictly  examined, 
and  freed  from  the  verbiage  and  conjecture  of  artistical  his- 
tory, nearly  reduce  themselves  to  a  list  of  the  cities  of  Italy 
where  he  painted,  and  to  a  few  anecdotes,  of  little  meaning  in 
themselves,  and  doubly  pointless  in  the  fact  of  most  of  them 
being  inheritances  of  the  whole  race  of  painters,  and  related 
successively  of  all  in  whose  biographies  the  public  have 
deigned  to  take  an  interest.  There  is  even  question  as  to  the 
date  of  his  birth  ;  Vasari  stating  him  to  have  been  born  in 
1276,  while  Baldinucci,  on  the  internal  evidence  derived  from 
Vasari's  own  narrative,  throws  the  date  back  ten  years.*  I 
believe,  however,  that  Vasari  is  most  probably  accurate  in  his 
first  main  statement ;  and  that  his  errors,  always  numerous, 
are  in  the  subsequent  and  minor  particulars.  It  is  at  least 
undoubted  truth  that  Giotto  was  born,  and  passed  the  years 
of  childhood,  at  Vespignano,  about  fourteen  miles  north  of 
Florence,  on  the  road  to  Bologna.  Few  travellers  can  forget 
the  peculiar  landscape  of  that  district  of  the  Apennine.  As 
they  ascend  the  hill  which  rises  from  Florence  to  the  lowest 
break  in  the  ridge  of  Fiesole,  they  pass  continually  beneath 
the  walls  of  villas  bright  in  perfect  luxury,  and  beside  cypress- 
hedges,  enclosing  fair  terraced  gardens,  where  the  masses  of 
oleander  and  magnolia,  motionless  as  leaves  in  a  picture, 
inlay  alternately  upon  the  blue  sky  their  branching  lightness 
of  pale  rose-colour,  and  deep  green  breadth  of  shade,  studded 
with  balls  of  budding  silver,  and  showing  at  intervals  through 
their  framework  of  rich  leaf  and  rubied  flower,  the  far-away 
bends  of  the  Arno  beneath  its  slopes  of  olive,  and  the  purple 
peaks  of  the  Carrara  mountains,  tossing  themselves  against 
the  western  distance,  where  the  streaks  of  motionless  cloud 
burn  above  the  Pisan  sea.  The  traveller  passes  the  Fiesolan 
ridge,  and  all  is  changed.  The  country  is  on  a  sudden 
lonely.  Here  and  there  indeed  are  seen  the  scattered  houses 
of  a  farm  grouped  gracefully  upon  the  hill-sides, — here  and 
*  Lord  Lindsay,  Christian  Art,_vol.  ii  p.  166. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  321 

there  a  fragment  of  tower  upon  a  distant  rock ;  but  neither 
gardens,  nor  flowers,  nor  glittering  palace-walls,  only  a  grey 
extent  of  mountain-ground,  tufted  irregularly  with  ilex  and 
olive :  a  scene  not  sublime,  for  its  forms  are  subdued  and 
low  ;  not  desolate,  for  its  valleys  are  full  of  sown  fields  and 
tended  pastures  ;  not  rich  nor  lovely,  but  sunburnt  and  sor- 
rowful ;  becoming  wilder  every  instant  as  the  road  winds  into 
its  recesses,  ascending  still,  until  the  higher  woods,  now 
partly  oak  and  partly  pine,  drooping  back  from  the  central 
crest  of  the  Apennine,  leave  a  pastoral  wilderness  of  scathed 
rock  and  arid  grass,  withered  away  here  by  frost,  and  there 
by  strange  lambent  tongues  of  earth-fed  fire.*  Giotto  passed 
the  first  ten  years  of  his  life,  a  shepherd-boy,  among  these 
hills  ;  was  found  by  Cimabue,  near  his  native  village,  draw- 
ing one  of  his  sheep  upon  a  smooth  stone  ;  was  yielded  up 
by  his  father,  "  a  simple  person,  a  labourer  of  the  earth,"  to 
the  guardianship  of  the  painter,  who,  by  his  own  work,  had 
already  made  the  streets  of  Florence  ring  with  joy  ;  attended 
him  to  Florence,  and  became  his  disciple. 

We  may  fancy  the  glance  of  the  boy,  when  he  and  Cimabue 
stood  side  by  side  on  the  ridge  of  Fiesole,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  saw  the  flowering  thickets  of  the  Val  d'Arno  ;  and 
deep  beneath,  the  innumerable  towers  of  the  City  of  the  Lily, 
the  depths  of  his  own  heart  yet  hiding  tl  3  fairest  of  them  all. 
Another  ten  years  passed  over  him,  and  he  was  chosen  from 
among  the  painters  of  Italy  to  decorate  the  Vatican. 

The  account  given  us  by  Vasari  of  the  mode  of  his  competi- 
tion on  this  occasion,  is  one  of  the  few  anecdotes  of  him  which 
seem  to  be  authentic  (especially  as  having  given  rise  to  an 
Italian  proverb),  and  it  has  also  great  point  and  value.  I 
translate  Vasari's  words  literally. 

"  This  work  (his  paintings  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa)  ac- 
quired for  him,  both  in  the  city  and  externally,  so  much  fame, 
that  the  Pope,  Benedict  IX.  sent  a  certain  one  of  his  courtiers 
into  Tuscany,  to  see  what  sort  of  a  man  Giotto  was,  and  what 

*  At  Pietra  Mala.  The  flames  rise  two  or  three  feet  above  the  stony 
ground  out  of  which  they  spring,  white  and  fierce  enough  to  be  visible 
in  the  intense  rays  even  of  the  moruing  sun. 


322  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

was  the  quality  of  his  works,  he  (the  pope)  intending  to  hava 
some  paintings  executed  in  St.  Peter's ;  which  courtier,  com- 
ing to  see  Giotto,  and  hearing  that  there  were  other  masters 
in  Florence  who  excelled  in  painting  and  in  mosaic,  spoke,  in 
Siena,  to  many  masters  ;  then,  having  received  dra wings  from 
them,  he  came  to  Florence ;  and  having  gone  one  morning 
into  Giotto's  shop  as  he  was  at  work,  explained  the  pope's 
mind  to  him,  and  in  what  way  he  wished  to  avail  himself  of 
his  powers,  and  finally  requested  from  him  a  little  piece  of 
drawing  to  send  to  his  Holiness.  Giotto,  who  was  most  court- 
eous, took  a  leaf  (of  vellum  ?),  and  upon  this,  with  a  brush 
dipped  in  red,  fixing  his  arm  to  his  side,  to  make  it  as  the 
limb  of  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  turning  his  hand,  made  a  cir- 
cle so  perfect  in  measure  and  outline,  that  it  was  a  wonder  to 
see :  which  having  done,  he  said  to  the  courtier,  with  a  smile, 
'  There  is  the  drawing.'  He,  thinking  himself  mocked,  said, 
'  Shall  I  have  no  other  drawing  than  this  ? '  '  This  is  enough, 
and  too  much/ answered  Giotto;  'send  it  with  the  others: 
you  will  see  if  it  will  be  understood.'  The  ambassador,  see- 
ing that  he  could  not  get  any  thing  else,  took  his  leave  with 
small  satisfaction,  doubting  whether  he  had  not  been  made  a 
jest  of.  However,  when  he  sent  to  the  pope  the  other  draw- 
ings, and  the  names  of  those  who  had  made  them,  he  sent  also 
that  of  Giotto,  relating  the  way  in  which  he  had  held  himself 
in  drawing  his  circle,  without  moving  his  arm,  and  without 
compasses.  Whence  the  pope,  and  many  intelligent  courtiers, 
knew  how  much  Giotto  overpassed  in  excellence  all  the  other 
painters  of  his  time.  Afterwards,  the  thing  becoming  known, 
the  proverb  arose  from  it :  '  Thou  art  rounder  than  the  O  of 
Giotto  ;'  which  it  is  still  in  custom  to  say  to  men  of  the 
grosser  clay  ;  for  the  proverb  is  pretty,  not  only  on  account 
of  the  accident  of  its  origin,  but  because  it  has  a  double 
meaning,  '  round '  being  taken  in  Tuscany  to  express  not  only 
circular  form,  but  slowness  and  grossness  of  wit." 

Such  is  the  account  of  Vasari,  which,  at  the  first  reading, 
might  be  gravely  called  into  question,  seeing  that  the  paint- 
ings at  Pisa,  to  which  he  ascribes  the  sudden  extent  of  Giotto's 
reputation,  have  been  proved  to  be  the  work  of  Francesco  da 


GIOTTO  AND  SIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA.  323 

Volterra ;  *  and  since,  moreover,  Vasari  has  even  mistaken  the 
name  of  the  pope,  and  written  Boniface  IX.  for  Boniface  VHI. 
But  the  story  itself  must,  I  think,  be  true  ;  and,  rightly  under- 
stood, it  is  singularly  interesting.  I  say,  rightly  understood  ; 
for  Lord  Lindsay  supposes  the  circle  to  have  been  mechani- 
cally drawn  by  turning  the  sheet  of  vellum  under  the  hand,  as 
now  constantly  done  for  the  sake  of  speed  at  schools.  But 
neither  do  Vasari's  words  bear  this  construction,  nor  would 
the  drawing  so  made  have  borne  the  slightest  testimony 
to  Giotto's  power.  Vasari  says  distinctly,  "and  turning  his 
hand  "  (or,  as  I  should  rather  read  it,  "  with  a  sweep  of  his 
hand  "),  not  "  turning  the  vellum  ; "  neither  would  a  circle 
produced  in  so  mechanical  a  manner  have  borne  distinct  wit- 
ness to  any  thing  except  the  draughtsman's  mechanical  inge- 
nuity ;  and  Giotto  had  too  much  common  sense,  and  too  much 
courtesy,  to  send  the  pope  a  drawing  which  did  not  really 
contain  the  evidence  he  required.  Lord  Lindsay  has  been 
misled  also  by  his  own  careless  translation  of  "  pennello  tinto 
di  rosso  "  ("  a  brush  dipped  in  red,")  by  the  word  "  crayon." 
It  is  easy  to  draw  the  mechanical  circle  with  a  crayon,  but  by 
no  means  easy  with  a  brush.  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt 
that  Giotto  drew  the  circle  as  a  painter  naturally  would  draw 
it ;  that  is  to  say,  that  he  set  the  vellum  upright  on  the  wall 
or  panel  before  him,  and  then  steadying  his  arm  firmly  against 
his  side,  drew  the  circular  line  with  one  sweeping  but  firm 
revolution  of  his  hand,  holding  the  brush  long.  Such  a  feat 
as  this  is  completely  possible  to  a  well-disciplined  painter's 
hand,  but  utterly  impossible  to  any  other ;  and  the  circle  so 
drawn  was  the  most  convincing  proof  Giotto  could  give  of  his 
decision  of  eye  and  perfectness  of  practice. 

StiU,  even  when  thus  understood,  there  is  much  in  the 
anecdote  very  curious.  Here  is  a  painter  requested  by  the 
head  of  the  Church  to  execute  certain  religious  paintings, 
and  the  only  qualification  for  the  task  of  which  he  deigns  to 
demonstrate  his  possession  is  executive  skill.  Nothing  is  said, 
and  nothing  appears  to  be  thought,  of  expression,  or  inven- 

*  At  least  Lord  Lindsay  seems  to  consider  the  evidence  collected  bjf 
Forster  on  this  subject  conclusive.  Christian  Art,  vol.  ii.  p.  168. 


324  GIOTTO   AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

tion,  or  devotional  sentiment.  Nothing  is  required  but  firm- 
ness of  hand.  And  here  arises  the  important  question  :  Did 
Giotto  know  that  this  was  all  that  was  looked  for  by  his  re- 
ligious patrons  ?  and  is  there  occult  satire  in  the  example  of 
his  art  which  he  sends  them  ? — or  does  the  founder  of  sacred 
painting  mean  to  tell  us  that  he  holds  his  own  power  to  con- 
sist merely  in  firmness  of  hand,  secured  by  long  practice  ?  I 
cannot  satisfy  myself  on  this  point :  but  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  we  may  safely  gather  two  conclusions  from  the  words  of 
the  master,  "  It  is  enough,  and  more  than  enough."  The 
first,  that  Giotto  had  indeed  a  profound  feeling  of  the  value 
of  precision  in  all  art ;  and  that  we  may  use  the  full  force  of 
his  authority  to  press  the  truth,  of  which  it  is  so  difficult  to 
persuade  the  hasty  workmen  of  modern  times,  that  the  differ- 
ence between  right  and  wrong  lies  within  the  breadth  of  a 
line  ;  and  that  the  most  perfect  power  and  genius  are  shown 
by  the  accuracy  which  disdains  error,  and  the  faithfulness 
which  fears  it. 

And  the  second  conclusion  is,  that  whatever  Giotto's  inv 
aginative  powers  might  be,  he  was  proud  to  be  a  good  work- 
man, and  willing  to  be  considered  by  others  only  as  such. 
There  might  lurk,  as  has  been  suggested,  some  satire  in  the 
message  to  the  pope,  and  some  consciousness  in  his  own 
mind  of  faculties  higher  than  those  of  draughtsmanship.  I 
cannot  tell  how  far  these  hidden  feelings  existed  ;  but  the 
more  I  see  of  living  artists,  and  learn  of  departed  ones,  the 
more  I  am  convinced  that  the  highest  strength  of  genius  is 
generally  marked  by  strange  unconsciousness  of  its  own 
modes  of  operation,  and  often  by  no  small  scorn  of  the  best 
results  of  its  exertion.  The  inferior  mind  intently  watches 
its  own  processes,  and  dearly  values  its  own  produce  ;  the 
master-mind  is  intent  on  other  things  than  itself,  and  cares 
little  for  the  fruits  of  a  toil  which  it  is  apt  to  undertake  rather 
as  a  law  of  life  than  a  means  of  immortality.  It  will  sing  at 
a  feast,  or  retouch  an  old  play,  or  paint  a  dark  wall,  for  its 
daily  bread,  anxious  only  to  be  honest  in  its  fulfilment  of  its 
pledges  or  its  duty,  and  careless  that  future  ages  will  rank  i* 
among  the  gods. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA.  325 

I  think  it  unnecessary  to  repeat  here  any  other  of  the  anec- 
dotes commonly  related  of  Giotto,  as,  separately  taken,  they 
are  quite  valueless.  Yet  much  may  be  gathered  from  their 
general  tone.  It  is  remarkable  that  they  are,  almost  without 
exception,  records  of  good-humoured  jests,  involving  or  illus- 
trating some  point  of  practical  good  sense  ;  and  by  comparing 
this  general  colour  of  the  reputation  of  Giotto  with  the  actual 
character  of  his  designs,  there  cannot  remain  the  smallest 
doubt  that  his  mind  was  one  of  the  most  healthy,  kind,  and 
active,  that  ever  informed  a  human  frame.  His  love  of  beauty 
was  entirely  free  from  weakness  ;  his  love  of  truth  untinged 
by  severity  ;  his  industry  constant,  without  impatience ;  his 
workmanship  accurate,  without  formalism  ;  his  temper  serene, 
and  yet  playful ;  his  imagination  exhaustless,  without  ex- 
travagance ;  and  his  faith  firm,  without  superstition.  I  do  not 
know,  in  the  annals  of  art,  such  another  example  of  happy, 
practical,  unerring,  and  benevolent  power. 

I  am  certain  that  this  is  the  estimate  of  his  character  which 
must  be  arrived  at  by  an  attentive  study  of  his  works,  and  of 
the  few  data  which  remain  respecting  his  life  ;  but  I  shall  not 
here  endeavour  to  give  proof  of  its  truth,  because  I  believe  the 
subject  has  been  exhaustively  treated  by  Eumohr  and  Forster, 
whose  essays  on  the  works  and  character  of  Giotto  will  doubt- 
less be  translated  into  English,  as  the  interest  of  the  English 
public  in  mediaeval  art  increases.  I  shall  therefore  here  only 
endeavour  briefly  to  sketch  the  relation  which  Giotto  held  to 
the  artists  who  preceded  and  followed  him,  a  relation  still 
imperfectly  understood  ;  and  then,  as  briefly,  to  indicate  the 
general  course  of  his  labours  in  Italy,  as  far  as  may  be  neces- 
sary for  understanding  the  value  of  the  series  in  the  Arena 
ChapeL 

The  art  of  Europe,  between  the  fifth  and  thirteenth  cen- 
turies, divides  itself  essentially  into  great  branches,  one  spring- 
ing from,  the  other  grafted  on,  the  old  Koman  stock.  The 
first  is  the  Eoman  art  itself,  prolonged  in  a  languid  and 
degraded  condition,  and  becoming  at  last  a  mere  formal 
system,  centered  at  the  feet  of  Eastern  empire,  and  thence 
generally  called  Byzantine.  The  other  is  the  barbarous  and 


326  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

incipient  art  of  the  Gothic  nations,  more  or  less  coloured  bj 
Roman  or  Byzantine  influence,  and  gradually  increasing  in 
life  and  power. 

Generally  speaking,  the  Byzantine  art,  although  manifesting 
itself  only  in  perpetual  repetitions,  becoming  every  day  more 
cold  and  formal,  yet  preserved  reminiscences  of  design  origi- 
nally noble,  and  traditions  of  execution  originally  perfect. 

Generally  speaking,  the  Gothic  art,  although  becoming 
every  day  more  powerful,  presented  the  most  ludicrous  ex- 
periments of  infantile  imagination,  and  the  most  rude  efforts 
of  untaught  manipulation. 

Hence,  if  any  superior  mind  arose  in  Byzantine  art,  it  had 
before  it  models  which  suggested  or  recorded  a  perfection 
they  did  not  themselves  possess  ;  and  the  superiority  of  the 
individual  mind  would  probably  be  shown  in  a  more  sincere 
and  living  treatment  of  the  subjects  ordained  for  repetition  by 
the  canons  of  the  schools. 

In  the  art  of  the  Goth,  the  choice  of  subject  was  unlimited, 
and  the  style  of  design  so  remote  from  all  perfection,  as  not 
always  even  to  point  out  clearly  the  direction  in  which  advance 
could  be  made.  The  strongest  minds  which  appear  in  that 
art  are  therefore  generally  manifested  by  redundance  of  im- 
agination, and  sudden  refinement  of  touch,  whether  of  pencil 
or  chisel,  together  with  unexpected  starts  of  effort  or  flashes 
of  knowledge  in  accidental  directions,  gradually  forming  vari- 
ous national  styles. 

Of  these  comparatively  independent  branches  of  art,  the 
greatest  is,  as  far  as  I  know,  the  French  sculpture  of  the  thir- 
teenth century.  No  words  can  give  any  idea  of  the  magnifi- 
cent redundance  of  its  imaginative  power,  or  of  the  perpetual 
beauty  of  even  its  smallest  incidental  designs.  But  this  very 
richness  of  sculptural  invention  prevented  the  French  from 
cultivating  their  powers  of  painting,  except  in  illumination  (of 
which  art  they  were  the  acknowledged  masters),  and  in  glass- 
painting.  Their  exquisite  gift  of  fretting  their  stone-work 
with  inexhaustible  wealth  of  sculpture,  prevented  their  feeling 
the  need  of  figure-design  on  coloured  surfaces. 

The  style  of  architecture  prevalent  in  Italy  at  the  same  pe- 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  327 

riod,  presented,  on  the  contrary,  large  blank  surfaces,  which 
could  only  be  rendered  interesting  by  covering  them  with 
mosaic  or  painting. 

The  Italians  were  not  at  the  time  capable  of  doing  this  for 
themselves,  and  mosaicists  were  brought  from  Constantinople, 
who  covered  the  churches  of  Italy  with  a  sublime  monotony 
of  Byzantine  traditions.  But  the  Gothic  blood  was  burning 
in  the  Italian  veins  ;  and  the  Florentines  and  Pisans  could  not 
rest  content  in  the  formalism  of  the  Eastern  splendour.  The 
first  innovator  was,  I  believe,  Giunta  of  Pisa,  the  second  Cima- 
bue,  the  third  Giotto ;  the  last  only  being  a  man  of  power 
enough  to  effect  a  complete  revolution  in  the  artistic  principles 
of  his  time. 

He,  however,  began,  like  his  master  Cimabue,  with  a  per- 
fect respect  for  his  Byzantine  models ;  and  his  paintings  for  a 
long  time  consisted  only  of  repetitions  of  the  Byzantine  sub- 
jects, softened  in  treatment,  enriched  in  number  of  figures, 
and  enlivened  in  gesture.  Afterwards  he  invented  subjects  of 
his  own.  The  manner  and  degree  of  the  changes  which  he  at 
first  effected  could  only  be  properly  understood  by  actual  com- 
parison of  his  designs  with  the  Byzantine  originals  ;  *  but  in 
default  of  the  means  of  such  a  comparison,  it  may  be  gener- 
ally stated  that  the  innovations  of  Giotto  consisted  in  the  in- 
troduction, A,  of  gayer  or  lighter  colours ;  B,  of  broader 
masses ;  and,  C,  of  more  careful  imitation  of  nature  than  ex- 
isted in  the  works  of  his  predecessors. 

A.  Greater  lightness  of  colour.  This  was  partly  in  compli- 
ance with  a  tendency  which  was  beginning  to  manifest  itself 
even  before  Giotto's  time.  Over  the  whole  of  northern  Eu- 
rope, the  colouring  of  the  eleventh  and  early  twelfth  centuries 

*  It  might  not,  I  think,  be  a  work  unworthy  of  the  Arundel  Society, 
to  collect  and  engrave  in  outline  the  complete  series  of  these  Byzantine 
originals  of  the  subjects  of  the  Arena  Chapel,  in  order  to  facilitate  this 
comparison.  The  Greek  MSS.  in  the  British  Museum  would,  I  think, 
be  amply  sufficient ;  the  Harleian  MS.  numbered  1810  alone  furnishing 
a  considerable  number  of  subjects,  and  especially  a  Death  of  the  Virgin, 
with  the  St.  John  thrown  into  the  peculiar  and  violent  gesture  of  grief 
afterwards  adopted  by  Giotto  in  the  Entombment  of  the  Arena  Chapel. 


328  GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

had  been  pale  :  in  manuscripts,  principally  composed  of  pale 
red,  green,  and  yellow,  blue  being  sparingly  introduced  (ear. 
Her  still,  in  the  eighth  and  ninth  centuries,  the  letters  had 
often  been  coloured  with  black  and  yellow  only).  Then,  in 
the  close  of  the  twelfth  and  throughout  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, the  great  system  of  perfect  colour  was  in  use ;  solemn 
and  deep  ;  composed  strictly,  in  all  its  leading  masses,  of  the 
colours  revealed  by  God  from  Sinai  as  the  noblest ; — blue, 
purple,  and  scarlet,  with  gold  (other  hues,  chiefly  green,  with 
white  and  black,  being  used  in  points  or  small  masses,  to  re- 
lieve the  main  colours).  In  the  early  part  of  the  fourteenth 
century  the  colours  begin  to  grow  paler  ;  about  1330  the  style 
is  already  completely  modified  ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  four- 
teenth century  the  color  is  quite  pale  and  delicate. 

I  have  not  carefully  examined  the  colouring  of  early  Byzan- 
tine work ;  but  it  seems  always  to  have  been  comparatively 
dark,  and  in  manuscripts  is  remarkably  so  ;  Giotto's  paler 
colouring,  therefore,  though  only  part  of  the  great  European 
system,  was  rendered  notable  by  its  stronger  contrast  with 
the  Byzantine  examples. 

B.  Greater  breadth  of  mass.  It  had  been  the  habit  of  the 
Byzantines  to  break  up  their  draperies  by  a  large  number  of 
minute  folds.  Norman  and  Romanesque  sculpture  showed 
much  of  the  same  character.  Giotto  melted  all  these  folds 
into  broad  masses  of  colour  ;  so  that  his  compositions  have 
sometimes  almost  a  Titianesque  look  in  this  particular.  This 
innovation  was  a  healthy  one,  and  led  to  very  noble  results 
when  followed  up  by  succeeding  artists  :  but  in  many  of  Gi- 
otto's compositions  the  figures  become  ludicrously  cumbrous, 
from  the  exceeding  simplicity  of  the  terminal  lines,  and  mass- 
iveness  of  unbroken  form.  The  manner  was  copied  in  illumi- 
nated manuscripts  with  great  disadvantage,  as  it  was  un- 
favourable to  minute  ornamentation.  The  French  never 
adopted  it  in  either  branch  of  art,  nor  did  any  other  Northern 
school :  minute  and  sharp  folds  of  the  robes  remaining  char- 
acteristic of  Northern  (more  especially  of  Flemish  and  German) 
design  down  to  the  latest  times,  giving  a  great  superiority  to 
the  French  and  Flemish  illuminated  work,  and  causing  a  pro. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA.  320 

portionate  inferiority  in  their  large  pictorial  efforts.  Even 
Rubens  and  Vandyke  cannot  free  themselves  from  a  certain 
meanness  and  minuteness  in  disposition  of  drapery. 

C.  Close  imitation  of  nature.  In  this  one  principle  lay 
Giotto's  great  strength,  and  the  entire  secret  of  the  revolution 
he  effected.  It  was  not  by  greater  learning,  not  by  the  dis- 
covery of  new  theories  of  art,  not  by  greater  taste,  nor  by 
"  ideal "  principles  of  selection,  that  he  became  the  head  of 
the  progressive  schools  of  Italy.  It  was  simply  by  being  in- 
terested in  what  was  going  on  around  him,  by  substituting  the 
gestures  of  living  men  for  conventional  attitudes,  and  por- 
traits of  living  men  for  conventional  faces,  and  incidents  of 
every-day  life  for  conventional  circumstances,  that  he  became 
great,  and  the  master  of  the  great.  Giotto  was  to  his 
contemporaries  precisely  what  Millais  is  to  his  contempo- 
raries,— a  daring  naturalist,  in  defiance  of  tradition,  ideal- 
ism, and  formalism.  The  Giottesque  movement  in  the 
fourteenth,  and  Pre-Raphaelite  movement  in  the  nineteenth 
centuries,  are  precisely  similar  in  bearing  and  meaning : 
both  being  the  protests  of  vitality  against  mortality,  of 
spirit  against  letter,  and  of  truth  against  tradition  :  and 
both,  which  is  the  more  singular,  literally  links  in  one 
unbroken  chain  of  feeling  ;  for  exactly  as  Niccola  Pisano  and 
Giotto  were  helped  by  the  classical  sculptures  discovered  in 
their  time,  the  Pre-Raphaelites  have  been  helped  by  the  works 
of  Niccola  and  Giotto  at  Pisa  and  Florence :  and  thus  the 
fiery  cross  of  truth  has  been  delivered  from  spirit  to  spirit, 
over  the  dust  of  intervening  generations. 

But  what,  it  may  be  said  by  the  reader,  is  the  use  of  the 
works  of  Giotto  to  us?  They  may  indeed  have  been  wonder- 
ful for  their  time,  and  of  infinite  use  in  that  time ;  but  since, 
after  Giotto,  came  Leonardo  and  Correggio,  what  is  the  use 
of  going  back  to  the  ruder  art,  and  republishing  it  in  the  year 
1854?  Why  should  we  fret  ourselves  to  dig  down  to  the  root 
of  the  tree,  when  we  may  at  once  enjoy  its  fruit  and  foliage  ? 
I  answer,  first,  that  in  all  matters  relating  to  human  intellect, 
it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  hold  of  the  root :  that  at  least  we 
ought  to  see  it,  and  taste  it,  and  handle  it ;  for  it  often  hap- 


330  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

pens  that  the  root  is  wholesome  when  the  leaves,  however  fair, 
are  useless  or  poisonous.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  the  first 
expression  of  an  idea  is  the  most  valuable ;  the  idea  may  after- 
ward be  polished  and  softened,  and  made  more  attractive  to 
the  general  eye  ;  but  the  first  expression  of  it  has  a  freshness 
and  brightness,  like  the  flash  of  a  native  crystal  compared  to 
the  lustre  of  glass  that  has  been  melted  and  cut.  And  in  the 
second  place,  we  ought  to  measure  the  value  of  art  less  by  its 
executive  than  by  its  moral  power.  Giotto  was  not  indeed 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  painters,  but  he  was  one  of  the 
greatest  men,  who  ever  lived.  He  was  the  first  master  of  his 
time,  in  architecture  as  well  as  in  painting ;  he  was  the  friend 
of  Dante,  and  the  undisputed  interpreter  of  religious  truth, 
by  means  of  painting,  over  the  whole  of  Italy.  The  works  of 
such  a  man  may  not  be  the  best  to  set  before  children  in  or- 
der to  teach  them  drawing ;  but  they  assuredly  should  be 
studied  with  the  greatest  care  by  all  who  are  interested  in  the 
history  of  the  human  mind. 

One  point  more  remains  to  be  noticed  respecting  him.  As 
far  as  I  am  aware,  he  never  painted  profane  subjects.  All  his 
important  existing  works  are  exclusively  devoted  to  the  illus- 
tration of  Christianity.  This  was  not  a  result  of  his  own  pe- 
culiar feeling  or  determination  ;  it  was  a  necessity  of  the  pe- 
riod. Giotto  appears  to  have  considered  himself  simply  as  a 
workman,  at  the  command  of  any  employer,  for  any  kind  of 
work,  however  humble.  "  In  the  sixty-third  novel  of  Franco 
Sacchetti  we  read  that  a  stranger,  suddenly  entering  Giotto's 
study,  threw  down  a  shield,  and  departed,  saying,  'Paint  me 
my  arms  on  that  shield.'  Giotto  looking  after  him,  exclaimed, 
'Who  is  he?  What  is  he?  He  says,  'Paint  me  my  arms,'  as 
if  he  was  one  of  the  BAKDI.  What  arms  does  he  bear?'  "  * 
But  at  the  time  of  Giotto's  eminence,  art  was  never  employed 
on  a  great  scale  except  in  the  service  of  religion  ;  nor  has  it 
ever  been  otherwise  employed,  except  in  declining  periods.  I 
do  not  mean  to  draw  any  severe  conclusion  from  this  fact ; 
but  it  is  a  fact  nevertheless,  which  ought  to  be  very  distinctly 
gtated,  and  very  carefully  considered.  All  progressive  ait 
*  Notes  to  Rogers'  Italy. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  331 

hitherto  has  been  religious  art ;  and  commencements  of  the 
periods  of  decline  are  accurately  marked,  in  illumination,  by 
its  employment  on  romances  instead  of  psalters ;  and  in  paint- 
ing, by  its  employment  on  mythology  or  profane  history  in- 
stead of  sacred  history.  Yet  perhaps  I  should  rather  have 
said,  on  heathen  mythology  instead  of  Christian  mythology;  for 
this  latter  term — first  used,  I  believe,  by  Lord  Lindsay — is 
more  applicable  to  the  subjects  of  the  early  painters  than  that 
of  "sacred  history."  Of  all  the  virtues  commonly  found  in 
the  higher  orders  of  human  mind,  that  of  a  stern  and  just  re- 
spect for  truth  seems  to  be  the  rarest ;  so  that  while  self-de- 
nial, and  courage,  and  charity,  and  religious  zeal,  are  displayed 
in  their  utmost  degrees  by  myriads  of  saints  and  heroes,  it  is 
only  once  in  a  century  that  a  man  appears  whose  word  may 
be  implicitly  trusted,  and  who,  in  the  relation  of  a  plain  fact, 
will  not  allow  his  prejudices  or  his  pleasure  to  tempt  him  to 
some  colouring  or  distortion  of  it.  Hence  the  portions  of 
sacred  history  which  have  been  the  constant  subjects  of  fond 
popular  contemplation  have,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  been  encum- 
bered with  fictitious  detail ;  and  their  various  historians  seem 
to  have  considered  the  exercise  of  their  imagination  innocent, 
and  even  meritorious,  if  they  could  increase  either  the  vivid- 
ness of  conception  or  the  sincerity  of  belief  in  their  readers. 
A  due  consideration  of  that  well-known  weakness  of  the  pop- 
ular mind,  which  renders  a  statement  credible  in  proportion 
to  the  multitude  of  local  and  circumstantial  details  which  ac- 
company it,  may  lead  us  to  look  with  some  indulgence  on  the 
errors,  however  fatal  in  their  issue  to  the  cause  they  were  in- 
tended to  advance,  of  those  weak  teachers,  who  thought  the 
acceptance  of  their  general  statements  of  Christian  doctrine 
cheaply  won  by  the  help  of  some  simple  (and  generally  absurd) 
inventions  of  detail  respecting  the  life  of  the  Virgin  or  the 
Apostles. 

Indeed,  I  can  hardly  imagine  the  Bible  to  be  ever  read  with 
true  interest,  unless,  in  our  reading,  we  feel  some  longing  for 
further  knowledge  of  the  minute  incidents  of  the  life  of  Christ, 
— for  some  records  of  those  things,  which  "  if  they  had  been 
written  every  one,"  the  world  could  not  have  contained  the 


332  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

books  that  should  be  written  :  and  they  who  have  once  felt 
this  thirst  for  further  truth,  may  surely  both  conceive  and 
pardon  the  earnest  questioning  of  simple  disciples  (who  knew 
not,  as  we  do,  how  much  had  been  indeed  revealed),  and 
measure  with  some  justice  the  strength  of  the  temptation 
which  betrayed  these  teachers  into  adding  to  the  word  of 
Eevelation.  Together  with  this  specious  and  subtle  influence, 
we  must  allow  for  the  instinct  of  imagination  exerting  itself 
in  the  acknowledged  embellishment  of  beloved  truths.  If  we 
reflect  how  much,  even  in  this  age  of  accurate  knowledge,  the 
visions  of  Milton  have  become  confused  in  the  minds  of  many 
persons  with  scriptural  facts,  we  shall  rather  be  surprised, 
that  in  an  age  of  legends  so  little  should  be  added  to  the 
Bible,  than  that  occasionally  we  should  be  informed  of  im- 
portant circumstances  in  sacred  history  with  the  collateral 
warning,  "  This  Moses  spake  not  of."  * 

More  especially  in  the  domain  of  painting,  it  is  surprising 
to  see  how  strictly  the  early  workmen  confined  themselves  to 
representations  of  the  same  series  of  scenes ;  how  little  of 
pictorial  embellishment  they  usually  added  ;  and  how,  even 
in  the  positions  and  gestures  of  figures,  they  strove  to  give  the 
idea  rather  of  their  having  seen  tine  fact,  than  imagined  a  pic- 
turesque treatment  of  it.  Often,  in  examining  early  art,  we 
mistake  conscientiousness  for  servility,  and  attribute  to  the 
absence  of  invention  what  was  indeed  the  result  of  the  earnest- 
ness of  faith. 

Nor,  in  a  merely  artistical  point  of  view,  is  it  less  important 
to  note,  that  the  greatest  advance  in  power  was  made  when 
painters  had  few  subjects  to  treat.  The  day  has  perhaps  come 
when  genius  should  be  shown  in  the  discovery  of  perpetu- 
ally various  interest  amidst  the  incidents  of  actual  life  ;  and 
the  absence  of  inventive  capacity  is  very  assuredly  proved 
by  the  narrow  selection  of  subjects  which  commonly  appear  on 
the  walls  of  our  exhibitions.  But  yet  it  is  to  be  always  re- 
membered, that  more  originality  may  be  shown  in  giving  in- 

*  These  words  are  gravely  added  to  some  singular  particulars  respect 
ing  the  life  of  Adam,  related  in  a  MS.  of  the  sixteenth  century  preserved 
in  the  Herald's  College. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  333 

terest  to  a  well-known  subject  than  in  discovering  a  new  one ; 
that  the  greatest  poets  whom  the  world  has  seen  have  been 
contented  to  retouch  and  exalt  the  creations  of  their  prede- 
cessors ;  and  that  the  painters  of  the  middle  ages  reached 
their  utmost  power  by  unweariedly  treading  a  narrow  circle  of 
sacred  subjects. 

Nothing  is  indeed  more  notable  in  the  history  of  art  than 
the  exact  balance  of  its  point  of  exceUence,  in  all  things,  mid- 
way between  servitude  and  license.  Thus,  in  choice  and  treat- 
ment of  subject,  it  became  paralysed  among  the  Byzantines,  by 
being  mercilessly  confined  to  a  given  series  of  scenes,  and  to 
a  given  mode  of  representing  them.  Giotto  gave  it  partial 
liberty  and  incipient  life  ;  by  the  artists  who  succeeded  him 
the  range  of  its  scenery  was  continually  extended,  and  the 
severity  of  its  style  slowly  softened  to  perfection.  But  the 
range  was  still,  in  some  degree,  limited  by  the  necessity  of  its 
continual  subordination  to  religious  purposes  ;  and  the  style, 
though  softened,  was  still  chaste,  and  though  tender,  self- 
restrained.  At  last  came  the  period  of  license :  the  artist 
chose  his  subjects  from  the  lowest  scenes  of  human  life,  and 
let  loose  his  passions  in  their  portraiture.  And  the  kingdom 
of  art  passed  away. 

As  if  to  direct  us  to  the  observation  of  this  great  law,  there 
is  a  curious  visible  type  of  it  in  the  progress  of  ornamentation 
in  manuscripts,  corresponding  with  the  various  changes  in  the 
higher  branch  of  art.  In  the  course  of  the  12th  and  early 
13th  centuries,  the  ornamentation,  though  often  full  of  high 
feeling  and  fantasy,  is  sternly  enclosed  within  limiting  border- 
lines ; — at  first,  severe  squares,  oblongs,  or  triangles.  As  the 
grace  of  the  ornamentation  advances,  these  border-lines  are 
softened  and  broken  into  various  curves,  and  the  inner  de- 
sign begins  here  and  there  to  overpass  them.  Gradually  this 
emergence  becomes  more  constant,  and  the  lines  which  thus 
escape  throw  themselves  into  curvatures  expressive  of  the  most 
exquisite  concurrence  of  freedom  with  self-restraint.  At  length 
the  restraint  vanishes,  the  freedom  changes  consequently  into 
license,  and  the  page  is  covered  with  exuberant,  irregularj  and 
foolish  extravagances  of  leafage  and  line. 


334:  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

It  only  remains  to  be  noticed,  that  the  circumstances  of  the 
time  at  which  Giotto  appeared  were  peculiarly  favourable  te 
the  development  of  genius  ;  owing  partly  to  the  simplicity  oi 
the  methods  of  practice,  and  partly  to  the  naivete  with  which 
art  was  commonly  regarded.  Giotto,  like  all  the  great  painters 
of  the  period,  was  merely  a  travelling  decorator  of  walls,  at  so 
much  a  day  ;  having  at  Florence  a  bottega,  or  workshop,  for 
the  production  and  sale  of  small  tempera  pictures.  There 
were  no  such  things  as  "  studios  "  in  those  days.  An  artist's 
"  studies  "  were  over  by  the  time  he  was  eighteen  ;  after  that 
he  was  a  lavoratore,  "labourer,"  a  man  who  knew  his  busi- 
ness, and  produced  certain  works  of  known  value  for  a  known 
price ;  being  troubled  with  no  philosophical  abstractions, 
shutting  himself  up  in  no  wise  for  the  reception  of  inspi- 
rations ;  receiving,  indeed,  a  good  many,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
— ]'ust  as  he  received  the  sunbeams  which  came  in  at  his  win- 
dow, the  light  which  he  worked  by  ; — in  either  case,  without 
mouthing  about  it,  or  much  concerning  himself  as  to  the 
nature  of  it.  Not  troubled  by  critics  either ;  satisfied  that  his 
work  was  well  done,  and  that  people  would  find  it  out  to  be 
well  done  ;  but  not  vain  of  it,  nor  more  profoundly  vexed  at 
its  being  found  fault  with,  than  a  good  saddler  would  be  by 
some  one's  saying  his  last  saddle  was  uneasy  in  the  seat.  Not, 
on  the  whole,  much  molested  by  critics,  but  generally  under- 
stood by  the  men  of  sense,  his  neighbours  and  friends,  and 
permitted  to  have  his  own  way  with  the  walls  he  had  to  paint, 
as  being,  on  the  whole,  an  authority  about  walls ;  receiving  at 
the  same  time  a  good  deal  of  daily  encouragement  and  com- 
fort in  the  simple  admiration  of  the  populace,  and  in  the 
general  sense  of  having  done  good,  and  painted  what  no  man 
could  look  upon  without  being  the  better  for  it. 

Thus  he  went,  a  serene  labourer,  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Italy.  For  the  first  ten  years  of  his  life,  a  shep- 
herd ;  then  a  student,  perhaps  for  five  or  six  ;  then  already  in 
Florence,  setting  himself  to  his  life's  task;  and  called  as  a 
master  to  Eome  when  he  was  only  twenty.  There  he  painted 
the  principal  chapel  of  St.  Peter's,  and  worked  in  mosaic  also ; 
no  handicrafts,  that  had  colour  or  form  for  their  objects, 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  335 

seeming  unknown  to  him.  Then  returning  to  Florence,  he 
painted  Dante,  about  the  year  1300,*  the  35th  year  of  Dante's 
life,  the  24th  of  his  own ;  and  designed  the  fa§ade  of  the 
Duomo,  on  the  death  of  its  former  architect,  Arnolfo.  Some 
six  years  afterwards  he  went  to  Padua,  there  painting  the 
chapel  which  is  the  subject  of  our  present  study,  and  many 
other  churches.  Thence  south  again  to  Assisi,  where  he 
painted  half  the  walls  and  vaults  of  the  great  convent  that 
stretches  itself  along  the  slopes  of  the  Perugian  hills,  and 
various  other  minor  works  on  his  way  there  and  back  to 
Florence.  Staying  in  his  native  city  but  a  little  while,  he  en- 
gaged himself  in  other  tasks  at  Ferrara,  Verona,  and  Ravenna, 
and  at  last  at  Avignon,  where  he  became  acquainted  with 
Petrarch — working  there  for  some  three  years,  from  1324  to 
1327  ;  f  and  then  passed  rapidly  through  Florence  and  Or- 
vieto  on  his  way  to  Naples,  where  "  he  received  the  kindest 
welcome  from  the  good  king  Robert.  The  king,  ever  partial 
to  men  of  mind  and  genius,  took  especial  delight  in  Giotto's 
society,  and  used  frequently  to  visit  him  while  working  in  the 
Castello  dell'  Uovo,  taking  pleasure  in  watching  his  pencil  and 
listening  to  his  discourse ;  '  and  Giotto,'  says  Vasari,  '  who 
had  ever  his  repartee  and  bon-mot  ready,  held  him  there,  fas- 
cinated at  once  with  the  magic  of  his  pencil  and  pleasantry  of 
his  tongue.'  We  are  not  told  the  length  of  his  sojourn  at 
Naples,  but  it  must  have  been  for  a  considerable  period, 
judging  from  the  quantity  of  works  he  executed  there.  He 
had  certainly  returned  to  Florence  in  1332."  There  he  \vas 
immediately  appointed  "  chief  master "  of  the  works  of  the 
Duomo,  then  in  progress,  "  with  a  yearly  salary  of  one  hun- 
dred gold  florins,  and  the  privilege  of  citizenship."  He 
designed  the  Campanile,  in  a  more  perfect  form  than  that 

*  Lord  Lindsay's  evidence  on  this  point  (Christian  Art,  vol.  ii.  p.  174) 
seems  quite  conclusive.  It  is  impossible  to  overrate  the  value  of  the 
work  of  Giotto  in  the  Bargello,  both  for  its  own  intrinsic  beauty,  and  as 
being  executed  in  this  year,  which  is  not  only  that  in  which  the  Divina 
Commedia  opens,  but,  as  I  think,  the  culminating  period  in  the  history 
of  the  art  of  the  middle  ages. 

\  Christian  Art,  vol.  ii.  p.  243. 


836  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKk  IN  PADUA. 

which  now  exists  ;  for  his  intended  spire,  150  feet  in  heightj 
never  was  erected.  He,  however,  modelled  the  bas-reliefs  for 
the  base  of  the  building,  and  sculptured  two  of  them  with  his 
own  hand.  It  was  afterwards  completed,  with  the  exception 
of  the  spire,  according  to  his  design  ;  but  he  only  saw  its 
foundations  laid,  and  its  first  marble  story  rise.  He  died  at 
Florence,  on  the  8th  of  January,  1337,  full  of  honour ;  happy, 
perhaps,  in  departing  at  the  zenith  of  his  strength,  when  his 
eye  had  not  become  dim,  nor  his  natural  force  abated.  He 
was  buried  in  the  cathedral,  at  the  angle  nearest  his  cam- 
panile ;  and  thus  the  tower,  which  is  the  chief  grace  of  his 
native  city,  may  be  regarded  as  his  own  sepulchral  monument. 

I  may  refer  the  reader  to  the  close  of  Lord  Lindsay's  letter 
on  Giotto,*  from  which  I  have  drawn  most  of  the  particulars 
above  stated,  for  a  very  beautiful  sketch  of  his  character  and 
his  art.  Of  the  real  rank  of  that  art,  in  the  abstract,  I  do  not 
feel  myself  capable  of  judging  accurately,  having  not  seen  his 
finest  works  (at  Assisi  and  Naples),  nor  carefully  studied  even 
those  at  Florence.  But  I  may  be  permitted  to  point  out  one 
or  two  peculiar  characteristics  in  it  which  have  always  struck 
me  forcibly. 

In  the  first  place,  Giotto  never  finished  highly.  He  was 
not,  indeed,  a  loose  or  sketchy  painter,  but  he  was  by  no 
means  a  delicate  one.  His  lines,  as  the  story  of  the  circle 
would  lead  us  to  expect,  are  always  firm,  but  they  are  never 
fine.  Even  in  his  smallest  tempera  pictures  the  touch  is  bold 
and  somewhat  heavy  :  in  his  fresco  work  the  handling  is 
much  broader  than  that  of  contemporary  painters,  correspond- 
ing somewhat  to  the  character  of  many  of  the  figures,  repre- 
senting plain,  masculine  kind  of  people,  and  never  reaching 
any  thing  like  the  ideal  refinement  of  the  conceptions  even  of 
Benozzo  Gozzoli,  far  less  of  Angelico  or  Francia.  For  this  rea- 
son, the  character  of  his  painting  is  better  expressed  by  bold 
wood-engravings  than  in  general  it  is  likely  to  be  by  any 
other  means. 

Again,  he  was  a  very  noble  colourist ;  and  in  his  peculiar 
feeling  for  breadth  of  hue  resembled  Titian  more  than  any 
*  Christian  Art,  p.  260. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  337 

other  of  the  Florentine  school.  That  is  to  say,  had  he  been 
born  two  centuries  later,  when  the  art  of  painting  was  fully 
known,  I  believe  he  would  have  treated  his  subjects  much 
more  like  Titian  than  like  Raphael ;  in  fact,  the  frescoes  of 
Titian  in  the  chapel  beside  the  church  of  St.  Antonio  at  Padua, 
are,  in  all  technical  qualities,  and  in  many  of  their  concep- 
tions, almost  exactly  what  I  believe  Giotto  would  have  done, 
had  he  lived  in  Titian's  time.  As  it  was,  he  of  course  never 
attained  either  richness  or  truth  of  colour ;  but  in  serene 
brilliancy  he  is  not  easily  rivalled  ;  invariably  massing  his 
hues  in  large  fields,  limiting  them  firmly,  and  then  filling  them 
with  subtle  gradation.  He  had  the  Venetian  fondness  for  bars 
and  stripes,  not  unfrequently  casting  barred  colours  obliquely 
across  the  draperies  of  an  upright  figure,  from  side  to  side  (as 
very  notably  in  the  dress  of  one  of  the  musicians  who  are  play- 
ing to  the  dancing  of  Herodias'  daughter,  in  one  of  his  frescoes 
at  Santa  Croce) ;  and  this  predilection  was  mingled  with  the 
truly  mediaeval  love  of  quartering.*  The  figure  of  the  Ma- 
donna in  the  small  tempera  pictures  in  the  Academy  at  Flor- 
ence is  always  completely  divided  into  two  narrow  segments 
by  her  dark-blue  robe. 

And  this  is  always  to  be  remembered  in  looking  at  any  en- 
gravings from  the  works  of  Giotto  ;  for  the  injury  they  sustain 
in  being  deprived  of  their  colour  is  far  greater  than  in  the  case 
of  later  designers.  All  works  produced  in  the  fourteenth 
century  agree  in  being  more  or  less  decorative ;  they  were  in- 
tended in  most  instances  to  be  subservient  to  architectural 
effect,  and  were  executed  in  the  manner  best  calculated  to 
produce  a  striking  impression  when  they  were  seen  in  a  mass. 
The  painted  wall  and  the  painted  window  were  part  and  par- 
cel of  one  magnificent  whole  ;  and  it  is  as  unjust  to  the  work 
of  Giotto,  or  of  any  contemporary  artist,  to  take  out  a  single 
feature  from  the  series,  and  represent  it  in  black  and  white 
on  a  separate  page,  as  it  would  be  to  take  out  a  compartment 

*  I  use  this  heraldic  word  in  an  inaccurate  sense,  knowing  no  other 
that  will  express  what  I  mean, — the  division  of  the  picture  into  quaint 
segments  of  alternating  colour,  more  marked  than  any  of  the  figure  out- 
lines.. 


338  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

of  a  noble  coloured  window,  and  engrave  it  in  the  same  man- 
ner. What  is  at  once  refined  and  effective,  if  seen  at  the  in. 
tended  distance  in  unison  with  the  rest  of  the  work,  becomes 
coarse  and  insipid  when  seen  isolated  and  near  ;  and  the  more 
skilfully  the  design  is  arranged,  so  as  to  give  full  value  to  the 
colours  which  are  introduced  in  it,  the  more  blank  and  cold 
Will  it  become  when  it  is  deprived  of  them. 

In  our  modern  art  we  have  indeed  lost  sight  of  one  great 
principle  which  regulated  that  of  the  middle  ages,  namely, 
that  chiaroscuro  and  colour  are  incompatible  in  their  highest 
degrees.  "Wherever  chiaroscuro  enters,  colour  must  lose  some 
of  its  brilliancy.  There  is  no  shade  in  a  rainbow,  nor  in  an 
opal,  nor  in  a  piece  of  mother-of-pearl,  nor  in  a  well-designed 
painted  window ;  only  various  hues  of  perfect  colour.  The 
best  pictures,  by  subduing  their  colour  and  conventionalising 
their  chiaroscuro,  reconcile  both  in  their  diminished  degrees ; 
but  a  perfect  light  and  shade  cannot  be  given  without  con- 
siderable loss  of  liveliness  in  colour.  Hence  the  supposed  in- 
feriority of  Tintoret  to  Titian.  Tintoret  is,  in  reality,  the 
greater  colourist  of  the  two  ;  but  he  could  not  bear  to  falsify 
his  light  and  shadow  enough  to  set  off  his  colour.  Titian 
nearly  strikes  the  exact  mean  between  the  painted  glass  of 
the  13th  century  and  Rembrandt ;  while  Giotto  closely  ap- 
proaches the  system  of  painted  glass,  and  hence  his  composi- 
tions lose  grievously  by  being  translated  into  black  and  white. 

But  even  this  chiaroscuro,  however  subdued,  is  not  without 
a  peculiar  charm  ;  and  the  accompanying  engravings  possess 
a  marked  superiority  over  all  that  have  hitherto  been  made 
from  the  works  of  this  painter,  in  rendering  this  chiaroscuro, 
as  far  as  possible,  together  with  the  effect  of  the  local  colours. 
The  true  appreciation  of  art  has  been  retarded  for  many  years 
by  the  habit  of  trusting  to  outlines  as  a  sufficient  expression 
of  the  sentiment  of  compositions  ;  whereas  in  all  truly  great 
designs,  of  whatever  age,  it  is  never  the  outline,  but  the  dis- 
position of  the  masses,  whether  of  shade  or  colour,  on  which 
the  real  power  of  the  work  depends.  For  instance,  in  Plate 
HI.  (The  Angel  appears  to  Anna),  the  interest  of  the  composi- 
tion depends  entirely  upon  the  broad  shadows  which  fill  th? 


GIOTTO  AND  SIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA.  339 

spaces  of  the  chamber,  and  of  the  external  passage  in  which 
the  attendant  is  sitting.  This  shade  explains  the  whole  scene 
in  a  moment :  gives  prominence  to  the  curtain  and  coverlid 
of  the  homely  bed,  and  the  rude  chest  and  trestles  which  form 
the  poor  furniture  of  the  house  ;  and  conducts  the  eye  easily 
and  instantly  to  the  three  figures,  which,  had  the  scene  been 
expressed  in  outline  only,  we  should  have  had  to  trace  out 
with  some  care  and  difficulty  among  the  pillars  of  the  loggia 
and  folds  of  the  curtains.  So  also  the  relief  of  the  faces  in 
light  against  the  dark  sky  is  of  peculiar  value  in  the  composi- 
tions No.  X.  and  No.  XH. 

The  drawing  of  Giotto  is,  of  course,  exceedingly  faulty. 
His  knowledge  of  the  human  figure  is  deficient ;  and  this,  the 
necessary  drawback  in  all  works  of  the  period,  occasions  an 
extreme  difficulty  in  rendering  them  faithfully  in  an  engrav- 
ing. For  wherever  there  is  good  and  legitimate  drawing,  the 
ordinary  education  of  a  modern  draughtsman  enables  him  to 
copy  it  with  tolerable  accuracy ;  but  when  once  the  true 
forms  of  nature  are  departed  from,  it  is  by  no  means  easy  to 
express  exactly  the  error,  and  no  more  than  the  error,  of  his 
original.  In  most  cases  modern  copyists  try  to  modify  or  hide 
the  weaknesses  of  the  old  art. — by  which  procedure  they  very 
often  wholly  lose  its  spirit,  and  only  half  redeem  its  defects  ; 
the  results  being,  of  course,  at  once  false  as  representations, 
and  intrinsically  valueless.  And  just  as  it  requires  great  cour- 
age and  skill  in  an  interpreter  to  speak  out  honestly  all  the 
rough  and  rude  words  of  the  first  speaker,  and  to  translate 
deliberately  and  resolutely,  in  the  face  of  attentive  men,  the 
expressions  of  his  weakness  or  impatience  ;  so  it  requires  at 
once  the  utmost  courage  and  skill  in  a  copyist  to  trace  faith- 
fully the  failures  of  an  imperfect  master,  in  the  front  of  mod- 
ern criticism,  and  against  the  inborn  instincts  of  his  own  hand 
and  eye.  And  let  him  do  the  best  he  can,  he  will  still  find 
that  the  grace  and  life  of  his  original  are  continually  flying  off 
like  a  vapour,  while  all  the  faults  he  has  so  diligently  copied 
sit  rigidly  staring  him  in  the  face, — a  terrible  caput  mortuum. 
It  is  very  necessary  that  this  should  be  well  understood  by  the 
members  of  the  Arundel  Society,  when  they  hear  their  en- 


34:0  GIOTTO  AM)  HIS  WOMKS  Itf  PADVA. 

gravings  severely  criticised.  It  is  easy  to  produce  an  agree- 
able  engraving  by  graceful  infidelities  ;  but  the  entire  en- 
deavour of  the  draughtsmen  employed  by  this  society  has 
been  to  o"btain  accurately  the  character  of  the  original :  and 
he  who  never  proposes  to  himself  to  rise  above  the  work  he  is 
copying,  must  most  assuredly  often  fall  beneath  it.  Such  fall 
is  the  inherent  and  inevitable  penalty  on  all  absolute  copy  ism ; 
and  wherever  the  copy  is  made  with  sincerity,  the  fall  must 
be  endured  with  patience.  It  will  never  be  an  utter  or  a  de- 
grading fall ;  that  is  reserved  for  those  who,  like  vulgar  trans- 
lators, wilfully  quit  the  hand  of  their  master,  and  have  no 
strength  of  their  own. 

Lastly.  It  is  especially  to  be  noticed  that  these  works  of 
Giotto,  in  common  with  all  others  of  the  period,  are  inde- 
pendent of  all  the  inferior  sources  of  pictorial  interest.  They 
never  show  the  slightest  attempt  at  imitative  realisation  :  they 
are  simple  suggestions  of  ideas,  claiming  no  regard  except  for 
the  inherent  value  of  the  thoughts.  There  is  no  filling  of  the 
landscape  with  variety  of  scenery,  architecture,  or  incident, 
as  in  the  works  of  Benozzo  Gozzoli  or  Perugino  ;  no  wealth  of 
jewellery  and  gold  spent  on  the  dresses  of  the  figures,  as  in 
the  delicate  labours  of  Angelico  or  Gentile  da  Fabriano.  The 
background  is  never  more  than  a  few  gloomy  masses  of  rock, 
with  a  tree  or  two,  and  perhaps  a  fountain  ;  the  architecture 
is  merely  what  is  necessary  to  explain  the  scene  ;  the  dresses 
are  painted  sternly  on  the  "  heroic  "  principle  of  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds — that  drapery  is  to  be  "  drapery,  and  nothing  more,5' 
— there  is  no  silk,  nor  velvet,  nor  distinguishable  material  of 
any  kind  :  the  whole  power  of  the  picture  is  rested  on  the 
three  simple  essentials  of  painting — pure  Colour,  noble  Form, 
noble  Thought. 

We  moderns,  educated  in  reality  far  more  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Dutch  masters  than  the  Italian,  and  taught  to 
look  for  realisation  in  all  things,  have  been  in  the  habit  of 
casting  scorn  on  these  early  Italian  works,  as  if  their  simplic- 
ity were  the  result  of  ignorance  merely.  When  we  know  a 
little  more  of  art  in  general,  we  shall  begin  to  suspect  that  a 
man  of  Giotto's  power  of  mind  did  not  altogether  suppose  hi& 


GIOTTO  AND  BIS   WORKS  IN  PADVA.  341 

clusters  of  formal  trees,  or  diminutive  masses  of  architecture, 
to  be  perfect  representations  of  the  woods  of  Judea,  or  of  the 
streets  of  Jerusalem  :  we  shall  begin  to  understand  that  there 
is  a  symbolical  art  which  addresses  the  imagination,  as  well 
as  a  realist  art  which  supersedes  it  ;  and  that  the  powers  of 
contemplation  and  conception  which  could  be  satisfied  or  ex- 
cited by  these  simple  types  of  natural  things,  were  infinitely 
more  majestic  than  those  which  are  so  dependent  on  the  com- 
pleteness of  what  is  presented  to  them  as  to  be  paralysed  by 
an  error  in  perspective,  or  stifled  by  the  absence  of  atmos- 
phere. 

Nor  is  the  healthy  simplicity  of  the  period  less  marked  in 
the  selection  than  in  the  treatment  of  subjects.  It  has  in  these 
days  become  necessary  for  the  painter  who  desires  popularity 
to  accumulate  on  his  canvas  whatever  is  startling  in  aspect  or 
emotion,  and  to  drain,  even  to  exhaustion,  the  vulgar  sources 
of  the  pathetic.  Modern  sentiment,  at  once  feverish  and  fee- 
ble, remains  unawakened  except  by  the  violences  of  gaiety  or 
gloom  ;  and  the  eye  refuses  to  pause,  except  when  it  is  tempted 
by  the  luxury  of  beauty,  or  fascinated  by  the  excitement  of 
terror.  It  ought  not,  therefore,  to  be  without  a  respectful 
admiration  that  we  find  the  masters  of  the  fourteenth  century 
dwelling  on  moments  of  the  most  subdued  and  tender  feeling, 
and  leaving  the  spectator  to  trace  the  under-currents  of 
thought  which  link  them  with  future  events  of  mightier  in- 
terest, and  fill  with  a  prophetic  power  and  mystery  scenes  in 
themselves  so  simple  as  the  meeting  of  a  master  with  his  herds- 
men among  the  hills,  or  the  return  of  a  betrothed  virgin  to 
her  house. 

It  is,  however,  to  be  remembered  that  this  quietness  in 
character  of  subject  was  much  more  possible  to  an  early 
painter,  owing  to  the  connection  in  which  his  works  were 
to  be  seen.  A  modern  picture,  isolated  and  portable,  must 
rest  all  its  claims  to  attention  on  its  own  actual  subject :  but 
the  pictures  of  the  early  masters  were  nearly  always  parts  of 
a  consecutive  and  stable  series,  in  which  many  were  subdued, 
like  the  connecting  passages  of  a  prolonged  poem,  in  order 
to  enhance  the  value  or  meaning  of  others.  The  arrange- 


342 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 


ment  of  the  subjects  in  the  Arena  Chapel  is  in  this  respect 
peculiarly  skilful ;  and  to  that  arrangement  we  must  now 
direct  our  attention. 

It  was  before  noticed  that  the  chapel  was  built  between 
1300  and  1306.  The  architecture  of  Italy  in  the  beginning 
of  the  fourteenth  century  is  always 
pure,  and  often  severe ;  but  this 
chapel  is  remarkable,  even  among 
the  severest  forms,  for  the  absence 
of  decoration.  Its  plan,  seen  in  the 
marginal  figure,  is  a  pure  oblong, 
with  a  narrow  advanced  tribune,  ter- 
minating in  a  trilateral  apse.  Selvat- 
ico  quotes  from  the  German  writer 
Stieglitz  some  curious  observations 
on  the  apparent  derivation  of  its  pro- 
portions, in  common  with  those  of 
other  buildings  of  the  time,  from  the 
number  of  sides  of  its  apse.  With- 
out entering  into  these  particulars, 
it  may  be  noted  that  the  apse  is  just 
one-half  the  width  of  the  body  of  the 
chapel,  and  that  the  length  from  the 
extremity  of  the  tribune  to  the  west 
end  is  just  seven  times  the  width  of 
the  apse.  The  whole  of  the  body  of 
the  chapel  was  painted  by  Giotto; 
the  walls  and  roof  being  entirely 
covered  eitherwith  his  figure-designs, 
or  with  various  subordinate  decora- 
tions connecting  and  enclosing  them. 
The  woodcut  opposite  represents 
the  arrangement  of  the  frescoes  on 
the  sides,  extremities,  and  roof  of  the  chapel.  The  spectator 
is  supposed  to  be  looking  from  the  western  entrance  towards 
the  tribune,  having  on  his  right  the  south  side,  which  is 
pierced  by  six  tall  windows,  and  on  which  the  frescoes  are 
therefore  reduced  in  number.  The  north  side  is  pierced  by 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 


343 


no  'windows,  and  on  it  therefore  the  frescoes  are  continuous, 
lighted  from  the  south  windows.     The  several  spaces  uum- 


INTEKIOB  OP  THE  ARENA  CHAPEL,  PADUA,  LOOKING  EASTWARD. 

bered  1  to  38  are  occupied  by  a  continuous  series  of  subjects, 
representing  the  life  of  the  Virgin  and  of  Christ ;  the  narrow 
panels  below,  marked  a,  b,  c,  &c.,  are  filled  by  figures  of  the 


344  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

cardinal  virtues  and  their  opponent  vices :  on  the  lunette 
above  the  tribune  is  painted  a  Christ  in  glory,  and  at  the 
western  extremity  the  Last  Judgment.  Thus  the  walls  of  the 
chapel  are  covered  with  a  continuous  meditative  poem  on  the 
mystery  of  the  Incarnation,  the  acts  of  Redemption,  the  vices 
and  virtues  of  mankind  as  proceeding  from  their  scorn  or  ac- 
ceptance of  that  Redemption,  and  their  final  judgment. 

The  first  twelve  pictures  of  the  series  are  exclusively  de- 
voted to  the  apocryphal  history  of  the  birth  and  life  of  the 
Virgin.  This  the  Protestant  spectator  will  observe,  perhaps, 
with  little  favour,  more  especially  as  only  two  compartments 
are  given  to  the  ministry  of  Christ,  between  his  Baptism  and 
Entry  into  Jerusalem.  Due  weight  is,  however,  to  be  allowed 
to  Lord  Lindsay's  remark,  that  the  legendary  history  of  the 
Virgin  was  of  peculiar  importance  in  this  chapel,  as  especially 
dedicated  to  her  service  ;  and  I  think  also  that  Giotto  desired 
to  unite  the  series  of  compositions  in  one  continuous  action, 
feeling  that  to  have  enlarged  on  the  separate  miracles  of 
Christ's  ministry  would  have  interrupted  the  onward  course 
of  thought.  As  it  is,  the  mind  is  led  from  the  first  humilia« 
tion  of  Joachim  to  the  Ascension  of  Christ  in  one  unbroken 
and  progressive  chain  of  scenes  ;  the  ministry  of  Christ  being 
completely  typified  by  his  first  and  last  conspicuous  miracle  : 
while  the  very  unimportance  of  some  of  the  subjects,  as  for 
instance  that  of  the  Watching  the  Rods,  is  useful  in  directing 
the  spectator  rather  to  pursue  the  course  of  the  narrative,  than 
to  pause  in  satisfied  meditation  upon  any  single  incident. 
And  it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  Giotto  had  also  a  peculiar 
pleasure  in  dwelling  on  the  circumstances  of  the  shepherd 
life  of  the  father  of  the  Virgin,  owing  to  its  resemblance  to 
that  of  his  own  early  years. 

The  incidents  represented  in  these  first  twelve  paintings  are 
recorded  in  the  two  apocryphal  gospels  known  as  the  "  Prot- 
evangelion  "  and  "Gospel  of  St.  Mary."*  But  on  comparing 

*  It  has  always  appeared  strange  to  me,  that  ecclesiastical  history 
should  possess  no  more  authentic  records  of  the  life  of  the  Virgin,  be- 
fore the  period  at  which  the  narrative  of  St.  Luke  commences,  than 
these  apocryphal  gospels,  which  are  as  wretched  in  style  as  untrust 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  345 

the  statements  in  these  writings  (which,  by  the  by,  are  in  no- 
wise consistent  with  each  other)  with  the  paintings  in  the 
Arena  Chapel,  it  appeared  to  me  that  Giotto  must  occasionally 
have  followed  some  more  detailed  traditions  than  are  furnished 
by  either  of  them  ;  seeing  that  of  one  or  two  subjects  the 
apocryphal  gospels  gave  no  distinct  or  sufficient  explanation. 
Fortunately,  however,  in  the  course  of  some  other  researches, 
I  met  with  a  manuscript  in  the  British  Museum  (Harl.  3571,) 
containing  a  complete  "  History  of  the  most  Holy  Family," 
written  in  Northern  Italian  of  about  the  middle  of  the  14th 
century  ;  and  appearing  to  be  one  of  the  forms  of  the  legend 
which  Giotto  has  occasionally  followed  in  preference  to  the 
statements  of  the  Protevangelion.  I  have  therefore,  in  illus- 
tration of  the  paintings,  given,  when  it  seemed  useful,  some 
portions  of  this  manuscript ;  and  these,  with  one  or  two 
verses  of  the  commonly  received  accounts,  will  be  found  gen- 
erally enough  to  interpret  sufficiently  the  meaning  of  the 
painter. 

The  following  complete  list  of  the  subjects  will  at  once  ena- 
ble the  reader  to  refer  any  of  them  to  its  place  in  the  series, 
and  on  the  walls  of  the  building  ;  and  I  have  only  now  to 
remind  him  in  conclusion,  that  within  those  walls  the  greatest 
painter  and  greatest  poet  of  medigeval  Italy  held  happy  com- 
panionship during  the  time  when  the  frescoes  were  executed. 
"  It  is  not  difficult,"  says  the  writer  already  so  often  quoted, 
Lord  Lindsay,  "  gazing  on  these  silent  but  eloquent  walls, 
to  repeople  them  with  the  group  once,  as  we  know,  five  hun- 
dred years  ago,  assembled  within  them  :  Giotto  intent  upon 


worthy  in  matter  ;  and  are  evidently  nothing  more  than  a  collection,  in 
rude  imitation  of  the  style  of  the  Evangelists,  of  such  floating  traditions 
as  became  current  among  the  weak  Christians  of  the  earlier  ages,  when 
their  inquiries  respecting  the  history  of  Mary  were  met  by  the  obscurity 
under  which  the  Divine  will  had  veiled  her  humble  person  and  charac- 
ter. There  must  always  be  something  painful,  to  those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  Scriptures,  in  reading  these  feeble  and  foolish  mockeries  of 
the  manner  of  the  inspired  writers  ;  but  it  will  be  proper,  nevertheless, 
to  give  the  exact  words  in  which  the  scenes  represented  by  Giotto  wer<j 
recorded  to  him. 


346  GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

his  work,  his  wife  Ciuta  admiring  his  progress  ;  and  Dante, 
with  abstracted  eye,  alternately  conversing  with  his  friend, 
and  watching  the  gambols  of  the  children  playing  on  the 
grass  before  the  door." 


SERIES   OF  SUBJECTS. 

1.  The  Kejection  of  Joachim's  Offering. 

2.  Joachim  retires  to  the  Sheepfold. 

3.  The  Angel  appears  to  Anna. 

4.  The  Sacrifice  of  Joachim. 

5.  The  Vision  of  Joachim. 

6.  The  Meeting  at  the  Golden  Gate. 

7.  The  Birth  of  the  Virgin. 

8.  The  Presentation  of  the  Virgin. 

9.  The  Eods  are  brought  to  the  High  Priest. 

10.  The  Watching  of  the  Kods. 

11.  The  Betrothal  of  the  Virgin. 

12.  The  Virgin  returns  to  her  House. 

13.  The  Angel  Gabriel. 

14.  The  Virgin  Annunciate. 

15.  The  Salutation. 

16.  The  Angel  appearing  to  the  Shepherds. 

17.  The  Wise  Men's  Offering. 

18.  The  Presentation  in  the  Temple. 

19.  The  Flight  into  Egypt. 

20.  The  Massacre  of  the  Innocents. 

21.  The  Young  Christ  in  the  Temple. 

22.  The  Baptism  of  Christ 

23.  The  Marriage  in  Cana. 

24.  The  Raising  of  Lazarus. 

25.  The  Entry  into  Jerusalem. 

26.  The  Expulsion  from  the  Templa 

27.  The  Hiring  of  Judas. 

28.  The  Last  Supper. 

29.  The  Washing  of  the  Feet. 

30.  The  Kiss  of  Judas. 


OIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  347 

31.  Christ  before  Caiaphas. 

32.  The  Scourging  of  Christ. 

33.  Christ  bearing  his  Cross. 

34.  The  Crucifixion. 

35.  The  Entombment. 

36.  The  Resurrection. 

37.  The  Ascension. 

38.  The  Descent  of  the  Holy  Spirit. 


THE  REJECTION  OF  JOACHIM'S  OFFERING. 

"  At  that  time,  there  was  a  man  of  perfect  holiness,  named 
Joachim,  of  the  tribe  of  Juda,  and  of  the  city  of  Jerusalem. 
And  this  Joachim  had  in  contempt  the  riches  and  honours  of 
the  world  ;  and  for  greater  despite  to  them,  he  kept  his  flocks, 
with  his  shepherds. 

" .  .  .  And  he,  being  so  holy  and  just,  divided  the 
fruits  which  he  received  from  his  flocks  into  three  parts  :  a 
third  part — wool,  and  lambs,  and  such  like — he  gave  to  God, 
that  is  to  say,  to  those  who  served  God,  and  who  ministered 
in  the  temple  of  God  ;  another  third  part  he  gave  to  widows, 
orphans,  and  pilgrims  ;  the  remaining  third  he  kept  for  him- 
self and  his  family.  And  he  persevering  in  this,  God  so 
multiplied  and  increased  his  goods  that  there  was  no  man 
like  him  in  the  land  of  Israel.  .  .  .  And  having  come  to 
the  age  of  twenty  years,  he  took  to  wife  Anna,  the  daughter 
of  Ysaya,  of  his  own  tribe,  and  of  the  lineage  of  David. 

"This  precious  St.  Anna  had  always  persevered  in  the 
service  of  God  with  great  wisdom  and  sincerity ;  .  .  . 
and  having  received  Joachim  for  her  husband,  was  subject  to 
him,  and  gave  him  honour  and  reverence,  living  in  the  fear  of 
God.  And  Joachim  having  lived  with  his  wife  Anna  for 
twenty  years,  yet  having  no  child,  and  there  being  a  great 
solemnity  in  Jerusalem,  all  the  men  of  the  city  went  to  offer 
in  the  temple  of  God,  which  Solomon  had  built  j  and  Joachim 


348  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

entering  the  temple  with  (incense  ?)  and  other  gifts  to  offer  on 
the  altar,  and  Joachim  having  made  his  offering,  the  minister 
of  the  temple,  whose  name  was  Issachar,  threw  Joachim's  offer- 
ing from  off  the  altar,  and  drove  Joachim  out  of  the  temple, 
saying,  'Thou,  Joachim,  art  not  worthy  to  enter  into  the 
temple,  seeing  that  God  has  not  added  his  blessing  to  you, 
as  in  your  life  you  have  had  no  seed. '  Thus  Joachim  received 
a  great  insult  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people  ;  and  he  being  all 
ashamed,  returned  to  his  house,  weeping  and  lamenting  most 
bitterly."  (MS.  Harl.) 

The  Gospel  of  St.  Mary  differs  from  this  MS.  .in  its  state- 
ment of  the  respective  cities  of  Joachim  and  Anna,  saying 
that  the  family  of  the  Virgin's  father  "  was  of  Galilee  and  of 
the  city  of  Nazareth,  the  family  of  her  mother  was  of  Beth- 
lehem." It  is  less  interesting  in  details  ;  but  gives  a  better, 
or  at  least  more  graceful,  account  of  Joachim's  repulse,  say- 
ing that  Issachar  "  despised  Joachim  and  his  offerings,  and 
asked  him  why  he,  who  had  no  children,  would  presume  to 
appear  among  those  who  had  :  adding,  that  his  offerings 
could  never  be  acceptable  to  God,  since  he  had  been  judged 
by  Him  unworthy  to  have  children  ;  the  Scripture  having 
said,  Cursed  is  every  one  who  shall  not  beget  a  male  in 
Israel." 

Giotto  seems  to  have  followed  this  latter  account,  as  the 
figure  of  the  high  priest  is  far  from  being  either  ignoble  or 
ungentle. 

The  temple  is  represented  by  the  two  most  important  por- 
tions of  a  Byzantine  church  ;  namely,  the  ciborium  which 
covered  the  altar,  and  the  pulpit  or  reading  desk ;  with  the 
low  screen  in  front  of  the  altar  enclosing  the  part  of  the 
church  called  the  "  cancellum."  Lord  Lindsay  speaks  of  tho 
priest  within  this  enclosure  as  "  confessing  a  young  man  who 
kneels  at  his  feet."  It  seems  to  me,  rather,  that  he  is  meant 
to  be  accepting  the  offering  of  another  worshipper,  so  as  to 
mark  the  rejection  of  Joachim  more  distinctly. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  349 

n. 
JOACHIM  RETIRES  TO  THE  SHEEPFOLD. 

"  Then  Joachim,  in  the  following  night,  resolved  to  sepa- 
rate himself  from  companionship  ;  to  go  to  the  desert  places 
among  the  mountains,  with  his  flocks  ;  and  to  inhabit  those 
mountains,  in  order  not  to  hear  such  insults.  And  imme- 
diately Joachim  rose  from  his  bed,  and  called  about  him  all 
his  servants  and  shepherds,  and  caused  to  be  gathered  to- 
gether all  his  flocks,  and  goats,  and  horses,  and  oxen,  and 
what  other  beasts  he  had,  and  went  with  them  and  with  the 
shepherds  into  the  hills  ;  and  Anna  his  wife  remained  at 
home  disconsolate,  and  mourning  for  her  husband,  who  had 
departed  from  her  in  such  sorrow."  (MS.  Harl.) 

"But  upon  inquiry,  he  found  that  all  the  righteous  had 
raised  up  seed  in  Israel.  Then  he  called  to  mind  the  pa- 
triarch Abraham, — how  that  God  in  the  end  of  his  life  had 
given  him  his  son  Isaac  :  upon  which  he  was  exceedingly  dis- 
tressed, and  would  not  be  seen  by  his  wife  ;  but  retired  into 
the  wilderness  and  fixed  his  tent  there,  and  fasted  forty  days 
and  forty  nights,  saying  to  himself,  '  I  will  not  go  down  to 
eat  or  drink  till  the  Lord  my  God  shall  look  down  upon  me  ; 
but  prayer  shall  be  my  meat  and  drink.'"  (Protevangelion, 
chap,  i.) 

Giotto  seems  here  also  to  have  followed  the  ordinary  tra- 
dition, as  he  has  represented  Joachim  retiring  unattended, — 
but  met  by  two  of  his  shepherds,  who  are  speaking  to  each 
other,  uncertain  what  to  do  or  how  to  receive  their  master. 
The  dog  hastens  to  meet  him  with  joy.  The  figure  of  Joachim 
is  singularly  beautiful  in  its  pensiveness  and  slow  motion  ; 
and  the  ignobleness  of  the  herdsmen's  figures  is  curiously 
marked  in  opposition  to  the  dignity  of  their  master. 


350 


m. 
THE  ANGEL  APPEAKS  TO  ANNA, 

"  Afterwards  the  angel  appeared  to  Anna  his  wife,  saying, 
'  Fear  not,  neither  think  that  which  you  see  is  a  spirit.  For  I 
am  that  angel  who  hath  offered  up  your  prayers  and  alms  be- 
fore God,  and  am  now  sent  to  tell  you  that  a  daughter  will 
be  born  unto  you.  .  .  .  Arise,  therefore,  and  go  up  to 
Jerusalem  ;  and  when  you  shall  come  to  that  which  is  called 
the  Golden  Gate  (because  it  is  gilt  with  gold),  as  a  sign  of 
what  I  have  told  you,  you  shall  meet  your  husband,  for  whose 
safety  you  have  been  so  much  concerned.'  "  (Gospel  of  St. 
Mary,  chap.  iii.  1-7.) 

The  accounts  in  the  Protevangelion  and  in  the  Harleian 
MS.  are  much  expanded  :  relating  how  Anna  feared  her  hus- 
band was  dead,  he  having  been  absent  from  her  five  months  ; 
and  how  Judith,  her  maid,  taunted  her  with  her  childlessness ; 
and  how,  going  then  into  her  garden,  she  saw  a  sparrow's  nest, 
full  of  young,  upon  a  laurel-tree,  and  mourning  within  herself, 
said,  "  I  am  not  comparable  to  the  very  beasts  of  the  earth, 
for  even  they  are  fruitful  before  thee,  O  Lord.  ...  I 
am  not  comparable  to  the  very  earth,  for  the  earth  produces 
its  fruits  to  praise  thee.  Then  the  angel  of  the  Lord  stood 
by  her,"  &c. 

Both  the  Protevangelion  and  Harleian  MS.  agree  in  placing 
the  vision  in  the  garden ;  the  latter  adding,  that  she  fled 
"  into  her  chamber  in  great  fear,  and  fell  upon  her  be'd,  and 
lay  as  in  a  trance  all  that  day  and  all  that  night,  but  did  not 
tell  the  vision  to  her  maid,  because  of  her  bitter  answering." 
Giotto  has  deviated  from  both  accounts  in  making  the  vision 
appear  to  Anna  in  her  chamber,  while  the  maid,  evidently  be- 
ing considered  an  important  personage,  is  at  work  in  the 
passage.  Apart  from  all  reference  to  the  legends,  there  is 
something  peculiarly  beautiful  in  the  simplicity  of  Giotto's 
conception,  and  in  the  way  in  which  he  has  shown  the  angel  en- 
tering at  the  window,  without  the  least  endeavour  to  impress 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  351 

our  imagination  by  darkness,  or  light,  or  clouds,  or  any  othet 
accessory  ;  as  though  believing  that  angels  might  appear  any 
where,  and  any  day,  and  to  all  men,  as  a  matter  of  course,  if 
we  would  ask  them,  or  were  fit  company  for  them. 


IV. 

THE  SACKIFICE  OF  JOACHIM. 

The  account  of  this  sacrifice  is  only  given  clearly  in  the 
Harleian  MS. ;  but  even  this  differs  from  Giotto's  series  in  the 
order  of  the  visions,  as  the  subject  of  the  next  plate  is  recorded 
first  in  this  MS.,  under  the  curious  heading,  "  Disse  Sancto 
Theofilo  como  1'angelo  de  Dio  aperse  a  Joachim  lo  qual  li 
anuntia  la  nativita  della  vergene  Maria  ; "  while  the  record  of 
this  vision  and  sacrifice  is  headed,  "  Como  1'angelo  de  Dio 
aparse  anchor  a  a  Joachim."  It  then  proceeds  thus :  "At  this 
very  moment  of  the  day  "  (when  the  angel  appeared  to  Anna), 
"there  appeared  a  most  beautiful  youth  (unno  belitissimo 
zovene)  among  the  mountains  there,  where  Joachim  was,  and 
said  to  Joachim,  'Wherefore  dost  thou  not  return  to  thy 
wife  ? '  And  Joachim  answered,  '  These  twenty  years  God 
has  given  me  no  fruit  of  her,  wherefore  I  was  chased 
from  the  temple  with  infinite  shame.  .  .  .  And,  as  long 
as  I  live,  I  will  give  alms  of  my  flocks  to  widows  and  pil- 
grims.' .  .  .  And  these  words  being  finished,  the  youth 
answered,  '  I  am  the  angel  of  God  who  appeared  to  thee  the 
other  time  for  a  sign;  and  appeared  to  thy  wife  Anna, 
who  always  abides  in  prayer,  weeping  day  and  night ;  and  I 
have  consoled  her  ;  wherefore  I  command  thee  to  observe  the 
commandments  of  God,  and  his  will,  which  I  tell  you  truly, 
that  of  thee  shall  be  born  a  daughter,  and  that  thou  shalt 
offer  her  to  the  temple  of  God,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  shall  rest 
upon  her,  and  her  blessedness  shall  be  above  the  blessedness 
of  all  virgins,  and  her  holiness  so  great  that  human  nature 
will  not  be  able  to  comprehend  it.'  *  .  .  . 

*  This  passage  in  the  old  Italian  of  the  MS.  may  interest  some  read- 
ers ;  "E  complice  queste  parole  lo  zovene  respoxe,  dignando,  lo  eon 


352  GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

"  Then  Joachim  fell  upon  the  earth,  saying,  '  My  lord,  I  pray 
thee  to  pray  God  for  me,  and  to  enter  into  this  my  tabernacle, 
and  bless  me,  thy  servant'  The  angel  answered,  '  We  are  all 
the  servants  of  God :  and  know  that  my  eating  would  be  in- 
visible, and  my  drinking  could  not  be  seen  by  all  the  men  in 
the  world ;  but  of  all  that  thou  wouldest  give  to  me,  do  thou 
make  sacrifice  to  God.'  Then  Joachim  took  a  lamb  without 
spot  or  blemish  .  .  .  ;  and  when  he  had  made  sacrifice 
of  it,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  disappeared  and  ascended  into 
heaven ;  and  Joachim  fell  upon  the  earth  in  great  fear,  and 
lay  from  the  sixth  hour  until  the  evening." 

This  is  evidently  nothing  more  than  a  very  vapid  imitation 
of  the  scriptural  narrative  of  the  appearances  of  angels  to 
Abraham  and  Manoah.  But  Giotto  has  put  life  into  it ;  and 
I  am  aware  of  no  other  composition  in  which  so  much  interest 
and  awe  has  been  given  to  the  literal  "burnt  sacrifice."  In  all 
other  representations  of  such  offerings  which  I  remember,  the 
interest  is  concentrated  in  the  slaying  of  the  victim.  But  Gi- 
otto has  fastened  on  the  burning  of  it ;  showing  the  white 
skeleton  left  on  the  altar,  and  the  fire  still  hurtling  up  round 
it,  typical  of  the  Divine  wrath,  which  is  "as  a  consuming 
fire  ; "  and  thus  rendering  the  sacrifice  a  more  clear  and  fear- 
ful type  not  merely  of  the  outward  wounds  and  death  of 
Christ,  but  of  his  soul-suffering.  "  All  my  bones  are  out  of 
joint :  my  heart  is  like  wax ;  it  is  melted  in  the  midst  of  my 
bowels."  * 

The  hand  of  the  Deity  is  seen  in  the  heavens — the  sign  of 
the  Divine  Presence. 

1'angelo  de  Dio,  lo  quale  si  te  aparse  1*  altra  fiada,  in  segno,  e  aparse  a 
toa  mulier  Anna  che  sempre  sta  in  oration  plauzando  di  e  note,  e  si  lo 
consolada ;  unde  io  te  comando  che  tu  debie  observare  li  comandimenti 
de  Dio,  ela  soua  volunta  che  io  te  dico  veramente,  che  de  la  toa  somenza 
insera  una  fiola,  e  questa  offrila  al  templo  de  Dio,  e  lo  Spirito  santo  re- 
posera  in  ley,  ela  soa  beatitudine  sera  sovera  tute  le  altre  verzene,  ela 
soua  santita  sera  si  grande  che  naturahumana  non  la  pora  comprendere. " 
*  (Note  by  a  friend): — "To  me  the  most  striking  part  of  it  is,  that 
the  skeleton  is  entire  ('a  bone  of  him  shall  not  be  broken'),  and  that 
the  head  stands  up  still  looking  to  the  skies :  is  it  too  fanciful  to  see  a 
meaning  in  this  ?  " 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  353 

v. 
THE  ANGEL  (KAPHAEL)  APPEAKS  TO  JOACHIM. 

"  Now  Joachim  being  in  this  pain,  the  Lord  God,  Father: 
of  mercy,  who  abandons  not  his  servants,  nor  ever  fails  to 
console  them  in  their  distresses,  if  they  pray  for  his  grace 
and  pity,  had  compassion  on  Joachim,  and  heard  his  prayer, 
and  sent  the  angel  Raphael  from  heaven  to  earth  to  console 
him,  and  announce  to  him  the  nativity  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 
Therefore  the  angel  Raphael  appeared  to  Joachim,  and  com- 
forted him  with  much  peace,  and  foretold  to  him  the  birth  of 
the  Virgin  in  that  glory  and  gladness,  saying,  '  God  save  you, 
O  friend  of  God,  O  Joachim !  the  Lord  has  sent  me  to  de- 
clare to  you  an  everlasting  joy,  and  a  hope  that  shall  have  no 
end.'  .  .  .  And  having  finished  these  words,  the  angel 
of  the  Lord  disappeared  from  him,  and  ascended  into  the 
heaven."  (MS.  Harl.) 

The  passage  which  I  have  omitted  is  merely  one  of  the  or- 
dinary Romanist  accounts  of  the  immaculate  conception  of 
the  Virgin,  put  into  the  form  of  prophecy.  There  are  no 
sufficient  details  of  this  part  of  the  legend  either  in  the  Prot- 
evangelion  or  Gospel  of  St.  Mary ;  but  it  is  quite  clear  that 
Giotto  followed  it,  and  that  he  has  endeavoured  to  mark  a  dis- 
tinction in  character  between  the  angels  Gabriel  and  Raphael  * 
in  the  two  subjects, — the  form  of  Raphael  melting  back  into 
the  heaven,  and  being  distinctly  recognised  as  angelic,  while 
Gabriel  appears  invested  with  perfect  humanity.  It  is  inter- 
esting to  observe  that  the  shepherds,  who  of  course  are  not 
supposed  to  see  the  form  of  the  Angel  (his  manifestation  be- 
ing only  granted  to  Joachim  during  his  sleep),  are  yet  evi- 
dently under  the  influence  of  a  certain  degree  of  awe  and 
expectation,  as  being  conscious  of  some  presence  other  than 
they  can  perceive,  while  the  animals  are  unconscious  al- 
together. 

*  The  MS.  makes  the  angel  Raphael  the  only  messenger.  Giotto 
clearly  adopts  the  figure  of  Gabriel  from  the  Protevangelion. 


354  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

VL 

THE  MEETING  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 

"And  Joachim  went  down  with  the  shepherds,  and  Anna 
stood  by  the  gate,  and  saw  Joachim  coming  with  the  shep- 
herds. And  she  ran,  and  hanging  about  his  neck,  said,  '  Now 
I  know  that  the  Lord  hath  greatly  blessed  me.' "  (Protevan- 
gelion,  iv.  8,  9.) 

This  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  Giotto's  compositions, 
and  deservedly  so,  being  full  of  the  most  solemn  grace  and 
tenderness.  The  face  of  St.  Anna,  half  seen,  is  most  touching 
in  its  depth  of  expression  ;  and  it  is  very  interesting  to  ob- 
serve how  Giotto  has  enhanced  its  sweetness,  by  giving  a 
harder  and  grosser  character  than  is  usual  with  him  to  the 
heads  of  the  other  two  principal  female  figures  (not  but  that 
this  cast  of  feature  is  found  frequently  in  the  figures  of  some- 
what earlier  art),  and  by  the  rough  and  weather-beaten  coun- 
tenance of  the  entering  shepherd.  In  like  manner,  the  falling 
lines  of  the  draperies  owe  a  great  part  of  their  value  to  the 
abrupt  and  ugly  oblongs  of  the  horizontal  masonry  which  ad- 
joins them. 

vn. 
THE  BIKTH  OF  THE  VIRGIN. 

"  And  Joachim  said,  '  Now  I  know  that  the  Lord  is  propi- 
tious to  me,  and  hath  taken  away  all  my  sins.'  And  he  went 
down  from  the  temple  of  the  Lord  justified,  and  went  to  his 
own  house. 

"And  when  nine  months  were  fulfilled  to  Anna,  she  brought 
forth,  and  said  to  the  midwife,  '  What  have  I  brought  forth  ? ' 
And  she  told  her,  a  girl. 

"  Then  Anna  said,  '  The  Lord  hath  this  day  magnified  my 
soul.'  And  she  laid  her  in  the  bed."  (Protevangelion,  v.  4-8.) 

The  composition  is  very  characteristic  of  Giotto  in  two  r$- 


QIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  355 

spects  :  first,  in  its  natural  homeliness  and  simplicity  (in  older 
designs  of  the  same  subject  the  little  Madonna  is  represented 
as  born  \vith  a  golden  crown  on  her  head)  ;  and  secondly,  in 
the  smaUness  of  the  breast  and  head  of  the  sitting  figure  on 
the  right, — a  fault  of  proportion  often  observable  in  Giotto's 
figures  of  children  or  young  girls. 

For  the  first  time,  also,  in  this  series,  we  have  here  two 
successive  periods  of  the  scene  represented  simultaneously, 
the  babe  being  painted  twice.  This  practice  was  frequent 
among  the  early  painters,  and  must  necessarily  become  so 
wherever  painting  undertakes  the  task  of  lengthened  narra- 
tive. Much  absurd  discussion  has  taken  place  respecting  its 
propriety ;  the  whole  question  being  simply  whether  the 
human  mind  can  or  cannot  pass  from  the  contemplation  of 
one  event  to  that  of  another,  without  reposing  itself  on  an 
intermediate  gilt  frame. 


THE  PRESENTATION   OF  THE  VIRGIN. 

"  And  when  three  years  were  expired,  and  the  time  of  her 
weaning  complete,  they  brought  the  Virgin  to  the  temple  of 
the  Lord  with  offerings. 

"  And  there  were  about  the  temple,  according  to  the  fifteen 
Psalms  of  Degrees,  fifteen  stairs  to  ascend. 

"The  parents  of  the  blessed  Virgin  and  infant  Mary  put 
her  upon  one  of  these  stairs  ;  but  while  they  were  putting  off 
their  clothes  in  which  they  had  travelled,  in  the  meantime, 
the  Virgin  of  the  Lord  in  such  a  manner  went  up  all  the  stairs, 
one  after  another,  without  the  help  of  any  one  to  lead  her  or 
lift  her,  that  any  one  would  have  judged  from  hence  that  she 
was  of  perfect  age."  (Gospel  of  St.  Mary,  iv.  1-6.) 

There  seems  nothing  very  miraculous  in  a  child's  walking 
up  stairs  at  three  years  old  ;  but  this  incident  is  a  favourite 
one  among  the  Roman-Catholic  painters  of  every  period :  gen- 
erally, however,  representing  the  child  as  older  than  in  the 
legend,  and  dwelling  rather  on  the  solemn  feeling  with  which 


356  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

she  presents  herself  to  the  high-priest,  than  on  the  mere  fact 
of  her  being  able  to  walk  alone.  Giotto  has  clearly  regarded 
the  incident  entirely  in  this  light ;  for  St.  Anna  touches  the 
child's  arm  as  if  to  support  her  ;  so  that  the  so-called  miracu- 
lous walking  is  not  even  hinted  at. 

Lord  Lindsay  particularly  notices  that  the  Virgin  is  "a 
dwarf  woman  instead  of  a  child ;  the  delineation  of  childhood 
was  one  of  the  latest  triumphs  of  art."  Even  in  the  time  of 
those  lateat  triumphs,  however,  the  same  fault  was  committed 
in  another  way  ;  and  a  boy  of  eight  or  ten  was  commonly  rep- 
resented— even  by  Raffaelle  himself — as  a  dwarf  Hercules, 
with  all  the  gladiatorial  muscles  already  visible  in  stunted  ro- 
tundity. Giotto  probably  felt  he  had  not  power  enough  to- 
give  dignity  to  a  child  of  three  years  old,  and  intended  the 
womanly  form  to  be  rather  typical  of  the  Virgin's  advanced 
mind,  than  an  actual  representation  of  her  person. 


IX. 

THE  RODS  ARE  BROUGHT  TO  THE  HIGH-PRIEST. 

"  Then  he  (the  high-priest)  appointed  that  all  the  men  of 
the  house  and  family  of  David  who  were  marriageable,  and 
not  married,  should  bring  their  several  rods  to  the  altar.  And 
out  of  whatsoever  person's  rod,  after  it  was  brought,  a  flower 
should  bud  forth,  and  on  the  top  of  it  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
should  sit  in  the  appearance  of  a  dove,  he  should  be  the  man 
to  whom  the  Virgin  should  be  given,  and  be  betrothed  to 
her."  (Gospel  of  St.  Mary,  v.  16,  17.) 

There  has  originally  been  very  little  interest  in  this  com- 
position ;  and  the  injuries  which  it  has  suffered  have  rendered 
it  impossible  for  the  draughtsman  to  distinguish  the  true  folds 
of  the  draperies  amidst  the  defaced  and  worn  colours  of  the 
fresco,  so  that  the  character  of  the  central  figure  is  lost.  The 
only  points  requiring  notice  are,  first,  the  manner  in  which 
St.  Joseph  holds  his  rod,  depressing  and  half -concealing  it,* 

*  In  the  next  chapter,  it  is  said  that  "Joseph,  drew  back  his  rod  when 
one  else  presented  his." 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WOBKS  IX  PAD  ff A.  35? 

while  the  other  suitors  present  theirs  boldly  ;  and  secondly, 
the  graceful  though  monotonous  grouping  of  the  heads  of  the 
crowd  behind  him.  This  mode  of  rendering  the  presence 
of  a  large  multitude,  showing  only  the  crowns  of  the  heads  in 
complicated  perspective,  was  long  practised  in  mosaics  and 
illuminations  before  the  tune  of  Giotto,  and  always  possesses 
a  certain  degree  of  sublimity  in  its  power  of  suggesting  per- 
fect unity  of  feeling  and  movement  among  the  crowd. 


x. 
THE  WATCHING  OF  THE  KODS  AT  THE  ALTAR 

"After  the  high-priest  had  received  their  rods,  he  went  into 
the  temple  to  pray. 

"  And  when  he  had  finished  his  prayer,  he  took  the  rods  and 
went  forth  and  distributed  them ;  and  there  was  no  miracle 
attended  them. 

"  The  last  rod  was  taken  by  Joseph ;  and,  behold,  a  dove 
proceeded  out  of  the  rod,  and  flew  upon  the  head  of  Joseph." 
(Protevangelion,  viii.  9-11.) 

This  is  among  the  least  graceful  designs  of  the  series  ; 
though  the  clumsiness  in  the  contours  of  the  leading  figures 
is  indeed  a  fault  which  often  occurs  in  the  painter's  best 
works,  but  it  is  here  unredeemed  by  the  rest  of  the  composi- 
tion. The  group  of  the  suitors,  however,  represented  as  wait- 
ing at  the  outside  of  the  temple,  is  very  beautiful  in  its  ear- 
nestness, more  especially  in  the  passionate  expression  of  the 
figure  in  front.  It  is  difficult  to  look  long  at  the  picture 
without  feeling  a  degree  of  anxiety,  and  strong  sympathy 
with  the  silent  watching  of  the  suitors  ;  and  this  is  a  sign  of 
no  small  power  in  the  work.  The  head  of  Joseph  is  seen  far 
back  on  the  extreme  left ;  thus  indicating  by  its  position  his 
humility,  and  desire  to  withdraw  from  the  trial. 


358  GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADU*. 

XI. 

THE  BETROTHAL  OF  THE  VIRGIN. 

There  is  no  distinct  notice  of  this  event  in  the  apocryphai 
Gospel :  the  traditional  representation  of  it  is  nearly  always 
more  or  less  similar.  Lord  Lindsay's  account  of  the  compo- 
sition before  us  is  as  follows  : 

"  The  high-priest,  standing  in  front  of  the  altar,  joins  their 
hands  ;  behind  the  Virgin  stand  her  bridesmaids  ;  behind  St. 
Joseph  the  unsuccessful  suitors,  one  of  whom  steps  forward 
to  strike  him,  and  another  breaks  his  rod  on  his  knee.  Joseph 
bears  his  own  rod,  on  the  flower  of  which  the  Holy  Spirit  rests 
in  the  semblance  of  a  dove." 

The  development  of  this  subject  by  Perugino  (for  Raf- 
faelle's  picture  in  the  Brera  is  little  more  than  a  modified 
copy  of  Perugino's,  now  at  Caen,)  is  well  known ;  but  not- 
withstanding all  its  beauty,  there  is  not,  I  think,  any  thing  in 
the  action  of  the  disappointed  suitors  so  perfectly  true  or 
touching  as  that  of  the  youth  breaking  his  rod  in  this  compo- 
sition of  Giotto's  ;  nor  is  there  among  any  of  the  figures  the 
expression  of  solemn  earnestness  and  intentness  on  the  event 
which  is  marked  among  the  attendants  here,  and  in  the  coun- 
tenances of  the  officiating  priests. 


xn. 
THE  VIRGIN  MARY  RETURNS  TO  HER  HOUSE. 

"Accordingly,  the  usual  ceremonies  of  betrothing  being 
over,  he  (Joseph)  returned  to  his  own  city  of  Bethlehem  to 
set  his  house  in  order,  and  to  make  the  needful  provisions  for 
the  marriage.  But  the  Virgin  of  the  Lord,  Mary,  with  seven 
other  virgins  of  the  same  age,  who  had  been  weaned  at  the 
same  time,  and  who  had  been  appointed  to  attend  her  by  the 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  359 

priest,  returned  to  her  parents'  house  in  Galilee."  (Gospel 
of  St.  Mary,  vi.  6,  7.) 

Of  all  the  compositions  in  the  Arena  Chapel  I  think  this  the 
most  characteristic  of  the  noble  time  in  which  it  was  done. 
It  is  not  so  notable  as  exhibiting  the  mind  of  Giotto,  which  is 
perhaps  more  fully  seen  in  subjects  representing  varied  emo- 
tion, as  in  the  simplicity  and  repose  which  were  peculiar  to 
the  compositions  of  the  early  fourteenth  century.  In  order 
to  judge  of  it  fairly,  it  ought  first  to  be  compared  with  any 
classical  composition — with  a  portion,  for  instance,  of  the 
Elgin  frieze, — which  would  instantly  make  manifest  in  it  a 
strange  seriousness  and  dignity  and  slowness  of  motion,  re- 
sulting chiefly  from  the  excessive  simplicity  of  all  its  terminal 
lines.  Observe,  for  instance,  the  pure  wave  from  the  back  of 
the  Virgin's  head  to  the  ground  ;  and  again,  the  delicate 
swelling  line  along  her  shoulder  and  left  arm,  opposed  to  the 
nearly  unbroken  fall  of  the  drapery  of  the  figure  in  front.  Ifc 
should  then  be  compared  with  an  Egyptian  or  Ninevite  series 
of  figures,  which,  by  contrast,  would  bring  out  its  perfect 
sweetness  and  grace,  as  well  as  its  variety  of  expression : 
finally,  it  should  be  compared  with  any  composition  subse- 
quent to  the  time  of  Eaffaelle,  in  order  to  feel  its  noble  free- 
dom from  pictorial  artifice  and  attitude.  These  three  com- 
parisons cannot  be  made  carefully  without  a  sense  of  profound 
reverence  for  the  national  spirit  *  which  could  produce  a 
design  so  majestic,  and  yet  remain  content  with  one  so 
simple. 

The  small  loggia  of  the  Virgin's  house  is  noticeable,  as  being 
different  from  the  architecture  introduced  in  the  other  pict- 
ures, and  more  accurately  representing  the  Italian  Gothic  of 
the  dwelling-house  of  the  period.  The  arches  of  the  windows 
have  no  capitals ;  but  this  omission  is  either  to  save  time,  or 
to  prevent  the  background  from  becoming  too  conspicuous. 
All  the  real  buildings  designed  by  Giotto  have  the  capital 
completely  developed. 

*  National,  because  Giotto's  works  are  properly  to  be  looked  on  as  th« 
fruit  of  their  own  age,  and  the  food  of  that  which  followed. 


360  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

XIII. 

THE  ANNUNCIATION.— THE  ANGEL  GABKIEL. 

This  figure  is  placed  on  one  side  of  the  arch  at  the  east  end 
of  the  body  of  the  chapel ;  the  corresponding  figure  of  the 
Virgin  being  set  on  the  other  side.  It  was  a  constant  prac- 
tice of  the  mediaeval  artists  thus  to  divide  this  subject ; 
which,  indeed,  was  so  often  painted,  that  the  meaning  of  the 
separated  figures  of  the  Angel  and  Mary  was  as  well  under- 
stood as  when  they  were  seen  in  juxtaposition.  Indeed,  on 
the  two  sides  of  this  arch  they  would  hardly  be  considered  as 
separated,  since  very  frequently  they  were  set  to  answer  to 
each  other  from  the  opposite  extremities  of  a  large  space  of 
architecture.* 

The  figure  of  the  Angel  is  notable  chiefly  for  its  serenity,  as 
opposed  to  the  later  conceptions  of  the  scene,  in  which  he 
sails  into  the  chamber  upon  the  wing,  like  a  stooping  falcon. 

The  building  above  is  more  developed  than  in  any  other  of 
the  Arena  paintings ;  but  it  must  always  remain  a  matter  of 
question,  why  so  exquisite  a  designer  of  architecture  as 
Giotto  should  introduce  forms  so  harsh  and  meagre  into  his 
backgrounds.  Possibly  he  felt  that  the  very  faults  of  the 
architecture  enhanced  the  grace  and  increased  the  importance 
of  the  figures  ;  at  least,  the  proceeding  seems  to  me  inexplic- 
able on  any  other  theory,  f 


XIV. 

THE  ANNUNCIATION.— THE  VIRGIN   MARY. 

Vasari,  in  his  notice  of  one  of  Giotto's  Annunciations, 
praises  him  for  having  justly  rendered  the  fear  of  the  Virgin 
at  the  address  of  the  Angel.  If  he  ever  treated  the  subject 

*  As,  for  instance,  on  the  two  opposite  angles  of  the  fagade  of  the 
Cathedral  of  Rheims. 

f  (Note  by  a  friend:)  "I  suppose  you  will  not  admit  as  an  explana- 
tion, that  he  had  not  yet  turned  his  mind  to  architectural  composition, 
the  Campanile  being  some  thirty  years  later  ?  " 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  361 

in  such  a  manner,  he  departed  from  all  the  traditions  of  hig 
time  ;  for  I  am  aware  of  no  painting  of  this  scene,  during  the 
course  of  the  thirteenth  and  following  centuries,  which  does 
not  represent  the  Virgin  as  perfectly  tranquil,  receiving  the 
message  of  the  Angel  in  solemn  thought  and  gentle  humility, 
but  without  a  shadow  of  fear.  It  was  reserved  for  the  painters 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries  to  change  angelic 
majesty  into  reckless  impetuosity,  and  maiden  meditation  into 
panic  dread. 

The  face  of  the  Virgin  is  slightly  disappointing.  Giotto 
never  reached  a  very  high  standard  of  beauty  in  feature  ; 
depending  much  on  distant  effect  in  all  his  works,  and  there- 
fore more  on  general  arrangement  of  colour  and  sincerity  of 
gesture,  than  on  refinement  of  drawing  in  the  countenance. 


xv. 
THE  SALUTATION. 

This  picture,  placed  beneath  the  figure  of  the  Virgin  An- 
nunciate at  the  east  end  of  the  chapel,  and  necessarily  small, 
(as  will  be  seen  by  the  plan),  in  consequence  of  the  space  oc- 
cupied by  the  arch  which  it  flanks,  begins  the  second  or  lower 
series  of  frescoes ;  being,  at  the  same  time,  the  first  of  the 
great  chain  of  more  familiar  subjects,  in  which  we  have  the 
power  of  comparing  the  conceptions  of  Giotto  not  only  with 
the  designs  of  earlier  ages,  but  with  the  efforts  which  subse- 
quent masters  have  made  to  exalt  or  vary  the  ideas  of  the 
principal  scenes  in  the  life  of  the  Virgin  and  of  Christ. 
The  two  paintings  of  the  Angel  Gabriel  and  the  Virgin  An- 
nunciate hardly  provoke  such  a  comparison,  being  almost 
statue-like  in  the  calm  subjection  of  all  dramatic  interest  to 
the  symmetrical  dignity  and  beauty  of  the  two  figures,  lead- 
ing, as  they  do,  the  whole  system  of  the  decoration  of  the 
chapel ;  but  this  of  the  Salutation  is  treated  with  no  such 
reference  to  the  ai-chitecture,  and  at  once  challenges  compari- 
son with  the  works  of  later  masters. 
4 


3G2 

Nor  is  the  challenge  feebly  maintained.  I  have  no  hesita 
tion  in  saying,  that,  among  all  the  renderings  of  this  scene 
which  now  exist,  I  remember  none  which  gives  the  pure  depth 
and  plain  facts  of  it  so  perfectly  as  this  of  Giotto's.  Of  majes- 
tic women  bowing  themselves  to  beautiful  and  meek  girls, 
both  wearing  gorgeous  robes,  in  the  midst  of  lovely  scenery, 
or  at  the  doors  of  Palladian  palaces,  we  have  enough ;  but  I 
do  not  know  any  picture  which  seems  to  me  to  give  so  truth- 
ful an  idea  of  the  action  with  which  Elizabeth  and  Mary  must 
actually  have  met, — which  gives  so  exactly  the  way  in  which 
Elizabeth  would  stretch  her  arms,  and  stoop  and  gaze  into 
Mary's  face,  and  the  way  in  which  Mary's  hand  would  slip  be- 
neath Elizabeth's  arms,  and  raise  her  up  to  kiss  her.  I  know 
not  any  Elizabeth  so  full  of  intense  love,  and  joy,  and  hum- 
bleness ;  hardly  any  Madonna  in  which  tenderness  and  dig- 
nity are  so  quietly  blended.  She  not  less  humble,  and  yet  ac- 
cepting the  reverence  of  Elizabeth  as  her  appointed  portion, 
saying,  in  her  simplicity  and  truth,  "He  that  is  mighty  hath 
magnified  me,  and  holy  is  His  name."  The  longer  that  this 
group  is  looked  upon,  the  more  it  will  be  felt  that  Giotto  has 
done  well  to  withdraw  from  it  nearly  all  accessories  of  land- 
scape and  adornment,  and  to  trust  it  to  the  power  of  its  own 
deep  expression.  We  may  gaze  upon  the  two  silent  figures 
until  their  silence  seems  to  be  broken,  and  the  words  of  the 
question  and  reply  sound  in  our  ears,  low,  as  if  from  far 
away: 

"  Whence  is  this  to  me,  that  the  Mother  of  my  Lord  should 
come  to  me  ?  " 

"  My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord,  and  my  spirit  hath  re- 
joiced in  God  my  Saviour." 


XVI. 

THE  NATIVITY. 

I  am  not  sure  whether  I  shall  do  well  or  kindly  in  telling 
the  reader  any  thing  about  this  beautiful  design.  Perhaps 
the  less  he  knows  about  early  art  or  early  traditions,  the  more 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  363 

deeply  lie  will  feel  its  purity  and  truth  ;  for  there  is  scarcely 
an  incident  here,  or  anything  in  the  manner  of  representing 
the  incidents,  which  is  not  mentioned  or  justified  in  Scripture. 
The  bold  hilly  background  reminds  us  that  Bethlehem  was  in 
the  hill-country  of  Judah.  But  it  may  seem  to  have  two  pur- 
poses besides  this  literal  one  :  the  first,  that  it  increases  the  idea 
of  exposure  and  loneliness  in  the  birth  of  Christ ;  the  second, 
that  the  masses  of  the  great  hills,  with  the  angels  floating 
round  them  in  the  horizontal  clouds,  may  in  some  sort  repre- 
sent to  our  thoughts  the  power  and  space  of  that  heaven  and 
earth  whose  Lord  is  being  laid  in  the  manger-cradle. 

There  is  an  exquisite  truth  and  sweetness  in  the  way  the 
Virgin  turns  upon  the  couch,  in  order  herself  to  assist  in  laying 
the  Child  down.  Giotto  is  in  this  exactly  faithful  to  the  scrip- 
tural words  :  "  She  wrapped  the  Child  in  swaddling-clothes, 
and  laid  Him  in  a  manger."  Joseph  sits  beneath  in  medita- 
tion ;  above,  the  angels,  all  exulting,  and,  as  it  were,  confused 
with  joy,  flutter  and  circle  in  the  air  like  birds, — three  looking 
up  to  the  Father's  throne  with  praise  and  thankfulness,  one 
stooping  to  adore  the  Prince  of  Peace,  one  flying  to  tell  the 
shepherds.  There  is  something  to  me  peculiarly  affecting  in 
this  disorder  of  theirs  ;  even  angels,  as  it  were,  breaking  their 
ranks  with  wonder,  and  not  knowing  how  to  utter  their  gladness 
and  passion  of  praise.  There  is  noticeable  here,  as  in  all  works 
of  this  early  time,  a  certain  confidence  in  the  way  in  which  the 
angels  trust  to  their  wings,  very  characteristic  of  a  period  of 
bold  and  simple  conception.  Modern  science  has  taught  us 
that  a  wing  cannot  be  anatomically  joined  to  a  shoulder  ;  and 
in  proportion  as  painters  approach  more  and  more  to  the 
scientific,  as  distinguished  from  the  contemplative  state  of 
mind,  they  put  the  wings  of  their  angels  on  more  timidly,  and 
dwell  with  greater  emphasis  upon  the  human  form,  and  with 
less  upon  the  wings,  until  these  last  become  a  species  of  decora- 
tive appendage, — a  mere  sign  of  an  angel.  But  in  Giotto's 
time  an  angel  was  a  complete  creature,  as  much  believed  in 
as  a  bird  ;  and  the  way  in  which  it  would  or  might  cast  itself 
into  the  air,  and  lean  hither  and  thither  upon  its  plumes,  was 
as  naturally  apprehended  as  the  manner  of  flight  of  a  chough 


364  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

or  a  starling.  Hence  Dante's  simple  and  most  exquisite  syn- 
onym for  angel,  "Bird  of  God ; "  and  hence  also  a  variety  and 
picturesqueness  in  the  expression  of  the  movements  of  the 
heavenly  hierarchies  by  the  earlier  painters,  ill  replaced  by 
the  powers  of  foreshortening,  and  throwing  naked  limbs  into 
fantastic  positions,  which  appear  in  the  cherubic  groups  of 
later  times. 

It  is  needless  to  point  out  the  frank  association  of  the  two 
events, — the  Nativity,  and  appearance  of  the  Angel  to  the 
Shepherds.  They  are  constantly  thus  joined  ;  but  I  do  not 
remember  any  other  example  in  which  they  are  joined  so 
boldly.  Usually  the  shepherds  are  seen  in  the  distance,  or 
are  introduced  in  some  ornamental  border,  or  other  inferior 
place.  The  view  of  painting  as  a  mode  of  suggesting  relative 
or  consecutive  thoughts,  rather  than  a  realisation  of  any  one 
scene,  is  seldom  so  fearlessly  asserted,  even  by  Giotto,  as 
here,  in  placing  the  flocks  of  the  shepherds  at  the  foot  of  the 
Virgin's  bed. 

This  bed,  it  will  be  noticed,  is  on  a  shelf  of  rock.  This  is 
in  compliance  with  the  idea  founded  on  the  Protevangelion 
and  the  apocryphal  book  known  as  the  Gospel  of  Infancy, 
that  our  Saviour  was  born  in  a  cave,  associated  with  the  scrip- 
tural statement  that  He  was  laid  in  a  manger,  of  which  the 
apocryphal  gospels  do  not  speak. 

The  vain  endeavour  to  exalt  the  awe  of  the  moment  of  the 
Saviour's  birth  has  turned,  in  these  gospels,  the  outhouse  of 
the  inn  into  a  species  of  subterranean  chapel,  full  of  incense 
and  candles.  "  It  was  after  sunset,  when  the  old  woman  (the 
midwife),  and  Joseph  with  her,  reached  the  cave ;  and  they 
both  went  into  it.  And  behold,  it  was  all  filled  with  light, 
greater  than  the  light  of  lamps  and  candles,  and  greater  than 
the  light  of  the  sun  itself."  (Infancy,  i.  9.)  "  Then  a  bright 
cloud  overshadowed  the  cave,  and  the  midwife  said  :  This  day 
my  soul  is  magnified."  (Protevangelion,  xiv.  10.)  The  thir- 
teenth chapter  of  the  Protevangelion  is,  however,  a  little  more 
skilful  in  this  attempt  at  exaltation.  "  And  leaving  her  and 
his  sons  in  the  cave,  Joseph  went  forth  to  seek  a  Hebrew  mid- 
wife in  the  village  of  Bethlehem.  But  as  I  was  going,  said 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA,  365 

Joseph,  I  looked  up  into  the  air,  and  I  saw  the  clouds  aston- 
ished, and  the  fowls  of  the  air  stopping  in  the  midst  of  their 
flight.  And  I  looked  down  towards  the  earth  and  saw  a  table 
spread,  and  working-people  sitting  around  it ;  but  their  hands 
were  on  the  table,  and  they  did  not  move  to  eat.  But  all 
their  faces  were  fixed  upwards."  (Protevangelion,  xiii.  1-7.) 
It  would,  of  course,  be  absurd  to  endeavor  to  institute  any 
comparison  between  the  various  pictures  of  this  subject,  in- 
numerable as  they  are  ;  but  I  must  at  least  deprecate  Lord 
Lindsay's  characterising  this  design  of  Giotto's  merely  as  the 
"Byzantine  composition."  It  contains,  indeed,  nothing  more 
than  the  materials  of  the  Byzantine  composition  ;  but  I  know 
no  Byzantine  Nativity  which  at  all  resembles  it  in  the  grace 
and  life  of  its  action.  And,  for  full  a  century  after  Giotto's 
time,  in  northern  Europe,  the  Nativity  was  represented  in  a 
far  more  conventional  manner  than  this ; — usually  only  the 
heads  of  the  ox  and  ass  are  seen,  and  they  are  arranging,  or 
holding  with  their  mouths,  the  drapery  of  the  couch  of  the 
Child,  who  is  not  being  laid  in  it  by  the  Virgin,  but  raised 
upon  a  kind  of  tablet  high  above  her  in  the  centre  of  the 
group.  All  these  early  designs,  without  exception,  however, 
agree  in  expressing  a  certain  degree  of  languor  in  the  figure 
of  the  Virgin,  and  in  making  her  recumbent  on  the  bed.  It 
is  not  till  the  fifteenth  century  that  she  is  represented  as 
exempt  from  suffering,  and  immediately  kneeling  in  adoration 
before  the  Child. 


XVII. 

THE   WISE   MEN'S   OFFERING. 

This  is  a  subject  which  has  been  so  great  a  favourite  with 
the  painters  of  later  periods,  and  on  which  so  much  rich  in- 
cidental invention  has  been  lavished,  that  Giotto's  rendering 
of  it  cannot  but  be  felt  to  be  barren.  It  is,  in  fact,  perhaps 
the  least  powerful  of  all  the  series  ;  and  its  effect  is  further 
marred  by  what  Lord  Lindsay  has  partly  noted,  the  appear- 


366  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

ance — perhaps  accidental,  but  if  so,  exceedingly  unskilful — of 
matronly  corpulence  in  the  figure  of  the  Madonna.  The  un- 
fortunate failure  in  the  representation  of  the  legs  and  chests 
of  the  camels,  and  the  awkwardness  of  the  attempt  to  render 
the  action  of  kneeling  in  the  foremost  king,  put  the  whole  com- 
position into  the  class — not  in  itself  an  uninteresting  one — of 
the  slips  or  shortcomings  of  great  masters.  One  incident  in 
it  only  is  worth  observing.  In  other  compositions  of  this  time, 
and  in  many  later  ones,  the  kings  are  generally  presenting 
their  offerings  themselves,  and  the  Child  takes  them  in  His 
hand,  or  smiles  at  them.  The  painters  who  thought  this  an 
undignified  conception  left  the  presents  in  the  hands  of  the 
attendants  of  the  Magi.  But  Giotto  considers  how  presents 
would  be  received  by  an  actual  king ;  and  as  what  has  been 
offered  to  a  monarch  is  delivered  to  the  care  of  his  attendants, 
Giotto  puts  a  waiting  angel  to  receive  the  gifts,  as  not  worthy 
to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  Infant. 


XVlil. 

THE  PEESENTATION  IN  THE  TEMPLE. 

This  design  is  one  of  those  which  are  peculiarly  character- 
istic of  Giotto  as  the  head  of  the  Naturalisti.*  No  painter 
before  his  time  would  have  dared  to  represent  the  Child 
Jesus  as  desiring  to  quit  the  arms  of  Simeon,  or  the  Virgin 
as  in  some  sort  interfering  with  the  prophet's  earnest  con- 
templation of  the  Child  by  stretching  her  arms  to  receive  Him. 
The  idea  is  evidently  a  false  one,  quite  unworthy  of  the  higher 
painters  of  the  religious  school ;  and  it  is  a  matter  of  peculiar 
interest  to  see  what  must  have  been  the  strength  of  Giotto's 
love  of  plain  facts,  which  could  force  him  to  stoop  so  low  in 
the  conception  of  this  most  touching  scene.  The  Child  does 
not,  it  will  be  observed,  merely  stretch  its  arm  to  the  Ma- 
donna, but  is  even  struggling  to  escape,  violently  raising  the 

*  See  account  of  his  principles  above,  p.  17,  head  C. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  72V  PADVA.  367 

left  foot.  But  there  is  another  incident  in  the  composition, 
witnessing  as  notably  to  Giotto's  powerful  grasp  of  all  the 
facts  of  his  subject  as  this  does  to  his  somewhat  hard  and 
plain  manner  of  grasping  them  ; — I  mean  the  angel  approach- 
ing Simeon,  as  if  with  a  message.  The  peculiar  interest  of 
the  Presentation  is  for  the  most  part  inadequately  represented 
in  painting,  because  it  is  impossible  to  imply  the  fact  of 
Simeon's  having  waited  so  long  in  the  hope  of  beholding  his 
Lord,  or  to  inform  the  spectator  of  the  feeling  in  which  he 
utters  the  song  of  hope  fulfilled.  Giotto  has,  it  seems  to  me, 
done  all  that  he  could  to  make  us  remember  this  peculiar 
meaning  of  the  scene  ;  for  I  think  I  cannot  be  deceived  in 
interpreting  the  flying  angel,  with  its  branch  of  palm  or  lily, 
to  be  the  Angel  of  Death,  sent  in  visible  fulfilment  of  the 
thankful  words  of  Simeon  :  "Lord,  now  lettest  Thou  Thy 
servant  depart  in  peace."  The  figure  of  Anna  is  poor  and 
uninteresting  ;  that  of  the  attendant,  on  the  extreme  left,  very 
beautiful,  both  in  its  drapery  and  in  the  severe  and  elevated 
character  of  the  features  and  head-dress. 


XIX. 

THE  FLIGHT  INTO  EGYPT. 

Giotto  again  shows,  in  his  treatment  of  this  subject,  a  juster 
understanding  of  the  probable  facts  than  most  other  painters. 
It  becomes  the  almost  universal  habit  of  later  artists  to  re- 
gard the  flight  as  both  sudden  and  secret,  undertaken  by 
Joseph  and  Mary,  unattended,  in  the  dawn  of  the  morning,  or 
"by  night,"  so  soon  as  Joseph  had  awaked  from  sleep.  (Matt 
ii.  14.)  Without  a  continuous  miracle,  which  it  is  unnecessary 
in  this  case  to  suppose,  such  a  lonely  journey  would  have  been 
nearly  impracticable.  Nor  was  instant  flight  necessary  ;  for 
Herod's  order  for  the  massacre  could  not  be  issued  until  he 
had  been  convinced,  by  the  protracted  absence  of  the  Wise 
Men,  that  he  was  "  mocked  of  them."  In  all  probability  the 
exact  nature  and  extent  of  the  danger  was  revealed  to  Joseph ; 


368  OIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

and  he  would  make  the  necessary  preparations  for  his  jour« 
ney  with  such  speed  as  he  could,  and  depart  "  by  night "  in- 
deed, but  not  in  the  instant  of  awakening  from  his  dream. 
The  ordinary  impression  seems  to  have  been  received  from 
the  words  of  the  Gospel  of  Infancy :  "  Go  into  Egypt  as  soon 
as  the  cock  crows."  And  the  interest  of  the  flight  is  rendered 
more  thrilling,  in  late  compositions,  by  the  introduction  of 
armed  pursuers.  Giotto  has  given  a  far  more  quiet,  deliber- 
ate, and  probable  character  to  the  whole  scene,  while  he  has 
fully  marked  the  fact  of  divine  protection  and  command  in 
the  figure  of  the  guiding  angel.  Nor  is  the  picture  less  in- 
teresting in  its  marked  expression  of  the  night.  The  figures 
are  all  distinctly  seen,  and  there  is  no  broad  distribution  of 
the  gloom ;  but  the  vigorous  blackness  of  the  dress  of  the 
attendant  who  holds  the  bridle,  and  the  scattered  glitter  of 
the  lights  on  the  Madonna's  robe,  are  enough  to  produce  the 
required  effect  on  the  mind. 

The  figure  of  the  Virgin  is  singularly  dignified  :  the  broad 
and  severe  curves  traced  by  the  hem  and  deepest  folds  of  her 
dress  materially  conducing  to  the  nobleness  of  the  group. 
The  Child  is  partly  sustained  by  a  band  fastened  round  the 
Madonna's  neck.  The  quaint  and  delicate  pattern  on  this 
band,  together  with  that  of  the  embroidered  edges  of  the 
dress,  is  of  great  value  in  opposing  and  making  more  mani- 
fest the  severe  and  grave  outlines  of  the  whole  figure,  whose 
impressiveness  is  also  partly  increased  by  the  rise  of  the 
mountain  just  above  it,  like  a  tent.  A  vulgar  composer 
would  have  moved  this  peak  to  the  right  or  left,  and  lost  its 
power. 

This  mountain  background  is  also  of  great  use  in  deepening 
the  sense  of  gloom  and  danger  on  the  desert  road.  The  trees 
represented  as  growing  on  the  heights  have  probably  been 
rendered  indistinct  by  time.  In  early  manuscripts  such  por- 
tions are  invariably  those  which  suffer  most ;  the  green  (on 
which  the  leaves  were  once  drawn  with  dark  colours)  moul- 
dering away,  and  the  lines  of  drawing  with  it.  But  even  in 
what  is  here  left  there  is  noticeable  more  careful  study  of  the 
distinction  between  the  trees  with  thick  spreading  foliage,  the 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  369 

group  of  two  with  light  branches  and  few  leaves,  and  the  tree 
stripped  and  dead  at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine,  than  an  histori- 
cal painter  would  now  think  it  consistent  with  his  dignity  to 
bestow. 


xx. 
MASSACRE  OF   THE   INNOCENTS. 

Of  all  the  series,  this  composition  is  the  one  which  exhibits 
most  of  Giotto's  weaknesses.  All  early  work  is  apt  to  fail  in 
the  rendering  of  violent  action  :  but  Giotto  is,  in  this  instance, 
inferior  not  only  to  his  successors,  but  to  the  feeblest  of  the 
miniature-painters  of  the  thirteenth  century  ;  while  his  im- 
perfect drawing  is  seen  at  its  worst  in  the  nude  figures  of  the 
children.  It  is,  in  fact,  almost  impossible  to  understand  how 
any  Italian,  familiar  with  the  eager  gesticulations  of  the  lower 
orders  of  his  countrywomen  on  the  smallest  points  of  dispute 
with  each  other,  should  have  been  incapable  of  giving  more 
adequate  expression  of  time  action  and  passion  to  the  grouy 
of  mothers  ;  and,  if  I  were  not  afraid  of  being  accused  of 
special  pleading,  I  might  insist  at  some  length  on  a  dim  faith 
of  my  own,  that  Giotto  thought  the  actual  agony  and  strivings 
of  the  probable  scene  unfit  for  pictorial  treatment,  or  for  com- 
mon contemplation  ;  and  that  he  chose  rather  to  give  motion- 
less types  and  personifications  of  the  soldiers  and  women,  than 
to  use  his  strength  and  realistic  faculty  in  bringing  before  the 
f  vulgar  eye  the  unseemly  struggle  or  unspeakable  pain.  The 
(  formal  arrangement  of  the  heap  of  corpses  in  the  centre  of 
the  group  ;  the  crowded  standing  of  the  mothers,  as  in  a 
choir  of  sorrow  ;  the  actual  presence  of  Herod,  to  whom 
some  of  them  appear  to  be  appealing, — all  seem  to  me  to  mark 
this  intention  ;  and  to  make  the  composition  only  a  symbol  or 
shadow  of  the  great  deed  of  massacre,  not  a  realisation  of  its 
visible  continuance  at  any  moment.  I  will  not  press  this  con- 
jecture ;  but  will  only  add,  that  if  it  be  so,  I  think  Giotto  was 
perfectly  right ;  and  that  a  picture  thus  conceived  might  have 
been  deeply  impressive,  had  it  been  more  successfully  exe- 


370  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

cuted ;  and  a  calmer,  more  continuous,  comfortless  grief  ex« 
pressed  in  the  countenances  of  the  women.  Far  better  thus, 
than  with  the  horrible  analysis  of  agony,  and  detail  of  despair, 
with  which  this  same  scene,  one  which  ought  never  to  have 
been  made  the  subject  of  painting  at  all,  has  been  gloated 
over  by  artists  of  more  degraded  times. 


XXI. 

THE  YOUNG  CHRIST  IN  THE  TEMPLE. 

This  composition  has  suffered  so  grievously  by  time,  that 
even  the  portions  of  it  which  remain  are  seen  to  the  greatest 
disadvantage.  Little  more  than  various  conditions  of  scar 
and  stain  can  be  now  traced,  where  were  once  the  draperies 
of  the  figures  in  the  shade,  and  the  suspended  garland  and 
arches  on  the  right  hand  of  the  spectator ;  and  in  endeavour- 
ing not  to  represent  more  than  there  is  authority  for,  the 
draughtsman  and  engraver  have  necessarily  produced  a  less 
satisfactory  plate  than  most  others  of  the  series.  But  Giotto 
has  also  himself  fallen  considerably  below  his  usual  standard. 
The  faces  appear  to  be  cold  and  hard  ;  and  the  attitudes  are 
as  little  graceful  as  expressive  either  of  attention  or  surprise. 
The  Madonna's  action,  stretching  her  arms  to  embrace  her 
Son,  is  pretty  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  the  picture  has  no  value  ; 
and  this  is  the  more  remarkable,  as  there  were  fewer  pre- 
cedents of  treatment  in  this  case  than  in  any  of  the  others  ; 
and  it  might  have  been  anticipated  that  Giotto  would  have 
put  himself  to  some  pains  when  the  field  of  thought  was  com- 
paratively new.  The  subject  of  Christ  teaching  in  the  Tem- 
ple rarely  occurs  in  manuscripts  ;  but  all  the  others  were 
perpetually  repeated  in  the  service-books  of  the  period. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

xxn. 
THE  BAPTISM  OF  CHRIST. 

This. is  a  more  interesting  work  than  the  last ;  but  it  is  also 
gravely  and  strangely  deficient  in  power  of  entering  into  the 
subject ;  and  this,  I  think,  is  common  with  nearly  all  efforts 
that  have  hitherto  been  made  at  its  representation.  I  have 
never  seen  a  picture  of  the  Baptism,  by  any  painter  whatever, 
which  was  not  below  the  average  power  of  the  painter ;  and 
in  this  conception  of  Giotto's,  the  humility  of  St.  John  is 
entirely  unexpressed,  and  the  gesture  of  Christ  has  hardly 
any  meaning:  it  neither  is  in  harmony  with  the  words, 
"  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now,"  which  must  have  been  uttered  be- 
fore the  moment  of  actual  baptism,  nor  does  it  in  the  slightest 
degree  indicate  the  sense  in  the  Redeemer  of  now  entering 
upon  the  great  work  of  His  ministry.  In  the  earlier  repre- 
sentations of  the  subject,  the  humility  of  Si  John  is  never  lost 
sight  of  ;  there  will  be  seen,  for  instance,  an  effort  at  express- 
ing it  by  the  slightly  stooping  attitude  and  bent  knee,  even 
in  the  very  rude  design  given  in  outline  on  the  opposite  page. 
I  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  set  before  the  reader  in  this 
outline  one  example  of  the  sort  of  traditional  representations 
which  were  current  throughout  Christendom  before  Giotto 
arose.  This  instance  is  taken  from  a  large  choir-book,  prob- 
ably of  French,  certainly  of  Northern  execution,  towards  the 
close  of  the  thirteenth  century  ;  *  and  it  is  a  very  fair  average 
example  of  the  manner  of  design  in  the  illuminated  work  of 
the  period.  The  introduction  of  the  scroll,  with  the  legend, 
"  This  is  My  beloved  Son,"  is  both  more  true  to  the  scriptural 
words,  "  Lo,  a  voice  from  heaven,"  and  more  reverent,  than 
Giotto's  introduction  of  the  visible  figure,  as  a  type  of  the 
First  Person  of  the  Trinity.  The  boldness  with  which  this 
type  is  introduced  increases  precisely  as  the  religious  senti- 
ment of  art  decreases  ;  in  the  fifteenth  century  it  becomes 
utterly  revolting. 

*  The  exact  date,  1290,  is  given  in  the  title-page  of  the  volume. 


372 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 


I  have  given  this  woodcut  for  another  reason  also  :  to  ex- 
plain more  clearly  the  mode  in  which  Giotto  deduced  the 
strange  form  which  he  has  given  to  the  stream  of  the  Jordan. 


In  the  earlier  Northern  works  it  is  merely  a  green  wave,  rising 
to  the  Saviour's  waist,  as  seen  in  the  woodcut.  Giotto,  for 
the  sake  of  getting  standing-ground  for  his  figures,  gives 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  373 

shores  to  this  wave,  retaining  its  swelling  form  in  the  centre, — 
a  very  painful  and  unsuccessful  attempt  at  reconciling  typical 
drawing  with  laws  of  perspective.  Or  perhaps  it  is  less  to 
be  regarded  as  an  effort  at  progress,  than  as  an  awkward 
combination  of  the  Eastern  and  Western  types  of  the  Jor- 
dan. In  the  difference  between  these  types  there  is  matter  of 
some  interest.  Lord  Lindsay,  who  merely  characterises  this 
work  of  Giotto's  as  "  the  Byzantine  composition,"  thus  de- 
scribes the  usual  Byzantine  manner  of  representing  the  Bap- 
tism : 

"  The  Saviour  stands  immersed  to  the  middle  in  Jordan 
(flowing  between  two  deep  and  rocky  banks),  on  one  of  which 
stands  St.  John,  pouring  the  water  on  His  head,  and  on  the 
other  two  angels  hold  His  robes.  The  Holy  Spirit  descends 
upon  Him  as  a  dove,  in  a  stream  of  light,  from  God  the 
Father,  usually  represented  by  a  hand  from  Heaven.  Two  of 
John's  disciples  stand  behind  him  as  spectators.  Frequently 
the  river-god  of  Jordan  reclines  with  his  oars  in  the  corner. 

.  .  .  In  the  Baptistery  at  Eavenna,  the  rope  is  sup- 
ported, not  by  an  angel,  but  by  the  river-deity  Jordann  (lor- 
danes  ?),  who  holds  in  his  left  hand  a  reed  as  his  sceptre." 

Now  in  this  mode  of  representing  rivers  there  is  something 
more  than  the  mere  Pagan  tradition  lingering  through  the 
wrecks  of  the  Eastern  Empire.  A  river,  in  the  East  and 
South,  is  necessarily  recognised  more  distinctly  as  a  beneficent 
power  than  in  the  West  and  North.  The  narrowest  and  feeblest 
stream  is  felt  to  have  an  influence  on  the  lif e  of  mankind ;  and 
is  counted  among  the  possessions,  or  honoured  among  the 
deities,  of  the  people  who  dwell  beside  it.  Hence  the  im- 
portance given,  in  the  Byzantine  compositions,  to  the  name 
and  specialty  of  the  Jordan  stream.  In  the  North  such  pe- 
culiar definiteness  and  importance  can  never  be  attached  to 
the  name  of  any  single  fountain.  Water,  in  its  various  forms 
of  streamlet,  rain,  or  river,  is  felt  as  an  universal  gift  of  heaven, 
not  as  an  inheritance  of  a  particular  spot  of  earth.  Hence, 
with  the  Gothic  artists  generally,  the  personality  of  the  Jor- 
dan is  lost  in  the  green  and  nameless  wave  ;  and  the  simple 
rite  of  the  Baptism  is  dwelt  upon,  without  endeavouring,  aa 


374:  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

Giotto  has  done,  to  draw  the  attention  to  the  rocky  shores  of 
Bethabara  and  JEnon,  or  to  the  fact  that  "  there  was  much 
water  there." 


xxin. 
THE  MARRIAGE  IN  CANA. 

It  is  strange  that  the  sweet  significance  of  this  first  of  the 
miracles  should  have  been  lost  sight  of  by  nearly  all  artists 
after  Giotto ;  and  that  no  effort  was  made  by  them  to  conceive 
the  circumstances  of  it  in  simplicity.  The  poverty  of  the 
family  in  which  the  marriage  took  place, — proved  sufficiently 
by  the  fact  that  a  carpenter's  wife  not  only  was  asked  as  a 
chief  guest,  but  even  had  authority  over  the  servants, — is 
shown  further  to  have  been  distressful,  or  at  least  embar- 
rassed, poverty  by  their  want  of  wine  on  such  an  occasion. 
It  was  not  certainly  to  remedy  an  accident  of  careless  provi- 
sion, but  to  supply  a  need  sorrowfully  betraying  the  narrow 
circumstances  of  His  hosts,  that  our  Lord  wrought  the  begin- 
ning of  miracles.  Many  mystic  meanings  have  been  sought  in 
the  act,  which,  though  there  is  no  need  to  deny,  there  is  little 
evidence  to  certify  :  but  we  may  joyfully  accept,  as  its  first 
indisputable  meaning,  that  of  simple  kindness  ;  the  wine  being 
provided  here,  when  needed,  as  the  bread  and  fish  were  after- 
wards for  the  hungry  multitudes.  The  whole  value  of  the 
miracle,  in  its  serviceable  tenderness,  is  at  once  effaced  when 
the  marriage  is  supposed,  as  by  Veronese  and  other  artists  of 
later  times,  to  have  taken  place  at  the  house  of  a  rich  man. 
For  the  rest,  Giotto  sufficiently  implies,  by  the  lifted  hand  of 
the  Madonna,  and  the  action  of  the  fingers  of  the  bridegroom, 
as  if  they  held  sacramental  bread,  that  there  lay  a  deeper 
meaning  under  the  miracle  for  those  who  could  accept  it. 
How  all  miracle  is  accepted  by  common  humanity,  he  has 
also  shown  in  the  figure  of  the  ruler  of  the  feast,  drinking. 
This  unregarding  forgetfuluess  of  present  spiritual  power  is 
similarly  marked  by  Veronese,  by  placing  the  figure  of  a  fool 
with  his  bauble  immediately  underneath  that  of  Christ,  and. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  375 

by  making  a  cat  play  with  her  shadow  in  one  of  the  v»-ine- 
vases. 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  however,  in  examining  all  pictures 
of  this  subject,  that  the  miracle  was  not  made  manifest  to  all 
the  guests  ; — to  none  indeed,  seemingly,  except  Christ's  own 
disciples :  the  ruler  of  the  feast,  and  probably  most  of  those 
present  (except  the  servants  who  drew  the  water),  knew  or 
observed  nothing  of  what  was  passing,  and  merely  thought 
the  good  wine  had  been  "  kept  until  now." 


XXIV. 

THE  KAISING  OF  LAZARUS. 

In  consequence  of  the  intermediate  position  which  Giotto 
occupies  between  the  Byzantine  and  Naturalist  schools,  two 
relations  of  treatment  are  to  be  generally  noted  in  his  work. 
As  compared  with  the  Byzantines,  he  is  a  realist,  whose  power 
consists  in  the  introduction  of  living  character  and  various  in- 
cidents, modifying  the  formerly  received  Byzantine  symbols. 
So  far  as  he  has  to  do  this,  he  is  a  realist  of  the  purest  kind, 
endeavouring  always  to  conceive  events  precisely  as  they  were 
likely  to  have  happened  ;  not  to  idealise  them  into  forms  art- 
fully impressive  to  the  spectator.  But  in  so  far  as  he  was 
compelled  to  retain,  or  did  not  wish  to  reject,  the  figurative 
character  of  the  Byzantine  symbols,  he  stands  opposed  to  suc- 
ceeding realists,  in  the  quantity  of  meaning  which  probably 
lies  hidden  in  any  composition,  as  well  as  in  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  will  probably  treat  it,  in  order  to  enforce  or 
guide  to  this  meaning  :  the  figures  being  often  letters  of  a 
hieroglyphic,  which  he  will  not  multiply,  lest  he  should  lose 
in  force  of  suggestion  what  he  gained  in  dramatic  interest. 

None  of  the  compositions  display  more  clearly  this  typical 
and  reflective  character  than  that  of  the  Raising  of  Lazarus. 
Later  designers  dwell  on  vulgar  conditions  of  wonder  or  hor- 
ror, such  as  they  could  conceive  likely  to  attend  the  resuscita- 
tion of  a  corpse  ;  but  with  Giotto  the  physical  reanimation  is. 


376  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORRS  IF  PADUA. 

the  type  of  a  spiritual  one,  and,  though  shown  to  be  miracu 
lous,  is  yet  in  all  its  deeper  aspects  unperturbed,  and  calm  in 
awfulness.  It  is  also  visibly  gradual.  "  His  face  was  bound 
about  with  a  napkin."  The  nearest  Apostle  has  withdrawn 
the  covering  from  the  face,  and  looks  for  the  command  which 
shall  restore  it  from  wasted  corruption,  and  sealed  blindness, 
to  living  power  and  light. 

Nor  is  it,  I  believe,  without  meaning,  that  the  two  Apostles, 
if  indeed  they  are  intended  for  Apostles,  who  stand  at  Laza- 
rus' side,  wear  a  different  dress  from  those  who  follow  Christ. 
I  suppose  them  to  be  intended  for  images  of  the  Christian  and 
Jewish  Churches  in  their  ministration  to  the  dead  soul :  the 
one  removing  its  bonds,  but  looking  to  Christ  for  the  word 
and  power  of  life  ;  the  other  inactive  and  helpless — the  veil 
upon  its  face — in  dread  ;  while  the  principal  figure  fulfils  the 
order  it  receives  in  fearless  simplicity. 


xxv. 
THE  ENTEY  INTO  JERUSALEM. 

This  design  suffers  much  from  loss  of  colour  in  translation. 
Its  decorative  effect  depends  on  the  deep  blue  ground,  reliev- 
ing the  delicate  foliage  and  the  local  colours  of  dresses  and 
architecture.  It  is  also  one  of  those  which  are  most  directly 
opposed  to  modern  feeling :  the  sympathy  of  the  spectator 
with  the  passion  of  the  crowd  being  somewhat  rudely  checked 
by  the  grotesque  action  of  two  of  the  foremost  figures.  We 
ought,  however,  rather  to  envy  the  deep  seriousness  which 
could  not  be  moved  from  dwelling  on  the  real  power  of  the 
scene  by  any  ungracefulness  or  familiarity  of  circumstance. 
Among  men  whose  minds  are  rightly  toned,  nothing  is  ludi- 
crous :  it  must,  if  an  act,  be  either  right  or  wrong,  noble  or 
base  ;  if  a  thing  seen,  it  must  either  be  ugly  or  beautiful : 
and  what  is  either  wrong  or  deformed  is  not,  among  noble 
persons,  in  anywise  subject  for  laughter  ;  but,  in  the  precise 
degree  of  its  wrongness  or  deformity,  a  subject  of  horror, 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  377 

All  perception  of  what,  in  the  modern  European  mind,  falls 
under  the  general  head  of  the  ludicrous,  is  either  childish  or 
profane  ;  often  healthy,  as  indicative  of  vigorous  animal  life, 
but  always  degraded  in  its  relation  to  manly  conditions  of 
thought.  It  has  a  secondary  use  in  its  power  of  detecting 
vulgar  imposture  ;  but  it  only  obtains  this  power  by  denying 
the  highest  truths. 


XXVL 

THE  EXPULSION  FROM  THE  TEMPLE. 

More  properly,  the  Expulsion  from  the  outer  Court  of  the 
Temple  (Court  of  Gentiles),  as  Giotto  has  indicated  by  placing 
the  porch  of  the  Temple  itself  in  the  background. 

The  design  shows,  as  clearly  as  that  of  the  Massacre  of  the 
Innocents,  Giotto's  want  of  power,  and  partly  of  desire,  to  rep- 
resent rapid  or  forceful  action.  The  raising  of  the  right  hand, 
not  holding  any  scourge,  resembles  the  action  afterwards  adopt- 
ed by  Oreagua,  and  finally  by  Michael  Angelo  in  his  Last 
Judgment :  and  my  belief  is,  that  Giotto  considered  this  act 
of  Christ's  as  partly  typical  of  the  final  judgment,  the  Phari- 
sees being  placed  on  the  left  hand,  and  the  disciples  on  the 
right.  From  the  faded  remains  of  the  fresco,  the  draughtsman 
could  not  determine  what  animals  are  intended  by  those  on 
the  left  hand.  But  the  most  curious  incident  (so  far  as  I 
know,  found  only  in  this  design  of  the  Expulsion,  no  subse- 
quent painter  repeating  it),  is  the  sheltering  of  the  two  chil- 
dren, one  of  them  carrying  a  dove,  under  the  arm  and  cloak 
of  two  disciples.  Many  meanings  might  easily  be  suggested 
in  this ;  but  I  see  no  evidence  for  the  adoption  of  any  distinct 
one. 


xxvn. 

THE   HIRING   OF   JUDAS. 

The  only  point  of  material  interest  presented  by  this  design 
is  the  decrepit  and  distorted  shadow  of  the  demon,  respecting 
5 


SYS  GlOTtO  AND  HIS  WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

which  it  may  be  well  to  remind  the  reader  that  all  the  great 
Italian  thinkers  concurred  in  assuming  decrepitude  or  disease, 
as  well  as  ugliness,  to  be  a  characteristic  of  all  natures  of  evil. 
Whatever  the  extent  of  the  power  granted  to  evil  spirits,  it 
was  always  abominable  and  contemptible  ;  no  element  of  beauty 
or  heroism  was  ever  allowed  to  remain,  however  obscured,  in 
the  aspect  of  a  fallen  angel.  Also,  the  demoniacal  nature  was 
shown  in  acts  of  betrayal,  torture,  or  wanton  hostility  ;  never 
in  valiancy  or  perseverance  of  contest.  I  recollect  no  mediaeval 
demon  who  shows  as  much  insulting,  resisting,  or  contending 
power  as  Bunyan's  Apollyon.  They  can  only  cheat,  under- 
mine, and  mock  ;  never  overthrow.  Judas,  as  we  should  nat- 
urally anticipate,  has  not  in  this  scene  the  nimbus  of  an  Apos- 
tle ;  yet  we  shall  find  it  restored  to  him  in  the  next  design. 
We  shall  discover  the  reason  of  this  only  by  a  careful  consider- 
ation of  the  meaning  of  that  fresco. 


XXVIII. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER 

I  have  not  examined  the  original  fresco  with  care  enough 
to  be  able  to  say  whether  the  uninteresting  quietness  of  its 
design  is  redeemed  by  more  than  ordinary  attention  to  ex- 
pression ;  it  is  one  of  the  least  attractive  subjects  in  the 
Arena  Chapel,  and  always  sure  to  be  passed  over  in  any  gen- 
eral observation  of  the  series :  nevertheless,  however  unfavour- 
ably it  may  at  first  contrast  with  the  designs  of  later  masters, 
nnd  especially  with  Leonardo's,  the  reader  should  not  fail  to 
observe  that  Giotto's  aim,  had  it  been  successful,  was  the 
higher  of  the  two,  as  giving  truer  rendering  of  the  probable 
fact.  There  is  no  distinct  evidence,  in  the  sacred  text,  of  the 
annunciation  of  coming  treachery  having  produced  among  the 
disciples  the  violent  surprise  and  agitation  represented  by 
Leonardo.  Naturally,  they  would  not  at  first  understand 
what  was  meant.  They  knew  nothing  distinctly  of  the  machi- 
nations of  the  priests ;  and  so  little  of  the  character  or  pur- 


O10TTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  379 

poses  of  Judas,  that  even  after  he  had  received  the  sop  which 
was  to  point  him  out  to  the  others  as  false  ; — and  after  they 
had  heard  the  injunction,  "  That  thou  doest,  do  quickly," — • 
the  other  disciples  had  still  no  conception  of  the  significance, 
either  of  the  saying,  or  the  act :  they  thought  that  Christ 
meant  he  was  to  buy  something  for  the  feast.  Nay,  Judas 
himself,  so  far  from  starting,  as  a  convicted  traitor,  and 
thereby  betraying  himself,  as  in  Leonardo's  picture,  had  not, 
when  Christ's  first  words  were  uttered,  any  immediately  active 
intention  formed.  The  devil  had  not  entered  into  him  until 
he  received  the  sop.  The  passage  in  St.  John's  account  is  a 
curious  one,  and  little  noticed  ;  but  it  marks  very  distinctly 
the  paralysed  state  of  the  man's  mind.  He  had  talked  with 
the  priests,  covenanted  with  them,  and  even  sought  opportu- 
nity to  bring  Jesus  into  their  hands  ;  but  while  such  opportu- 
nity was  wanting,  the  act  had  never  presented  itself  fully  to 
him  for  adoption  or  rejection.  He  had  toyed  with  it,  dreamed 
over  it,  hesitated,  and  procrastinated  over  it,  as  a  stupid  and 
cowardly  person  would,  such  as  traitors  are  apt  to  be.  But 
the  way  of  retreat  was  yet  open  ;  the  conquest  of  the  temper 
not  complete.  Only  after  receiving  the  sop  the  idea  finally 
presented  itself  clearly,  and  was  accepted,  "  To-night,  while 
He  is  in  the  garden,  I  can  do  it ;  and  I  will."  And  Giotto 
has  indicated  this  distinctly  by  giving  Judas  still  the  Apostle's 
nimbus,  both  in  this  subject  and  in  that  of  the  Washing  of 
the  Feet ;  while  it  is  taken  away  in  the  previous  subject  of 
the  Hiring,  and  the  following  one  of  the  Seizure:  thus  it 
fluctuates,  expires,  and  reillumines  itself,  until  his  fall  is  con- 
summated. This  being  the  general  state  of  the  Apostles'  knowl- 
edge, the  words,  "  One  of  you  shall  betray  me,"  would  excite 
no  feeling  in  their  minds  correspondent  to  that  with  which 
we  now  read  the  prophetic  sentence.  What  this  "  giving  up  " 
of  their  Master  meant  became  a  question  of  bitter  and  self- 
searching  thought  with  them, — gradually  of  intense  sorrow 
and  questioning.  But  had  they  understood  it  in  the  sense 
we  now  understand  it,  they  would  never  have  each  asked, 
"  Lord,  is  it  I  ?  "  Peter  believed  himself  incapable  even  of 
denying  Christ ;  and  of  giving  him  up  to  death  for  money, 


380  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

every  one  of  his  true  disciples  knew  themselves  incapable  ;  tha 
thought  never  occurred  to  them.  In  slowly-increasing  won- 
der and  sorrow  (rjp^avro  Xv-n-do-Sai,  Mark  xiv.  19),  not  knowing 
what  was  meant,  they  asked  one  by  one,  with  pauses  between, 
"Is  it  I?"  and  another,  "Is  it  I?"  and  this  so  quietly  and 
timidly  that  the  one  who  was  lying  on  Christ's  breast  never 
stirred  from  his  place  ;  and  Peter,  afraid  to  speak,  signed  to 
him  to  ask  who  it  was.  One  further  circumstance,  showing 
that  this  was  the  real  state  of  their  minds,  we  shall  find  Giotto 
take  cognisance  of  in  the  next  fresco. 


XXIX. 

THE   WASHING   OF  THE   FEET. 

In  this  design,  it  will  be  observed,  there  are  still  the  twelve 
disciples,  and  the  nimbus  is  yet  given  to  Judas  (though,  as  it 
were,  setting,  his  face  not  being  seen). 

Considering  the  deep  interest  and  importance  of  every  cir- 
cumstance of  the  Last  Supper,  I  cannot  understand  how 
preachers  and  commentators  pass  by  the  difficulty  of  clearly 
understanding  the  periods  indicated  in  St.  John's  account  of 
it.  It  seems  that  Christ  must  have  risen  while  they  were  still 
eating,  must  have  washed  their  feet  as  they  sate  or  reclined 
at  the  table,  just  as  the  Magdalen  had  washed  His  own  feet 
in  the  Pharisee's  house  ;  that,  this  done,  He  returned  to  the 
table,  and  the  disciples  continuing  to  eat,  presently  gave  the  sop 
to  Judas.  For  St.  John  says,  that  he  having  received  the 
sop,  went  immediately  out ;  yet  that  Christ  had  washed  his 
feet  is  certain,  from  the  words,  "Ye  are  clean,  but  not  all." 
Whatever  view  the  reader  may,  on  deliberation,  choose  to  ac- 
cept, Giotto's  is  clear,  namely,  that  though  not  cleansed  by 
the  baptism,  Judas  was  yet  capable  of  being  cleansed.  The 
devil  had  not  entered  into  him  at  the  time  of  the  washing  of 
the  feet,  and  he  retains  the  sign  of  an  Apostle. 

The  composition  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  series, 
especially  owing  to  the  submissive  grace  of  the  two  standing 
figures. 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WOI2KS  IN  PADUA.  381 

XXX. 

THE  KISS  OF  JUDAS. 

For  the  first  time  we  have  Giotto's  idea  of  the  face  of  the 
traitor  clearly  shown.  It  is  not,  I  think,  traceable  through 
any  of  the  previous  series  ;  and  it  has  often  surprised  me  to 
observe  how  impossible  it  was  in  the  works  of  almost  any  of 
the  sacred  painters  to  determine  by  the  mere  cast  of  feature 
which  was  meant  for  the  false  Apostle.  Here,  however, 
Giotto's  theory  of  physiognomy,  and  together  with  it  his  idea 
of  the  character  of  Judas,  are  perceivable  enough.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  he  looks  upon  Judas  mainly  as  a  sensual  dullard, 
and  foul-brained  fool ;  a  man  in  no  respect  exalted  in  bad 
eminence  of  treachery  above  the  mass  of  common  traitors, 
but  merely  a  distinct  type  of  the  eternal  treachery  to  good,  in 
vulgar  men,  which  stoops  beneath,  and  opposes  in  its  ap- 
pointed measure,  the  life  and  efforts  of  all  noble  persons, 
their  natural  enemies  in  this  world  ;  as  the  slime  lies  under  a 
clear  stream  running  through  an  earthy  meadow.  Our  care- 
less and  thoughtless  English  use  of  the  word  into  which  the 
Greek  "  Diabolos  "  has  been  shortened,  blinds  us  in  general 
to  the  meaning  of  "Devilry,"  which,  in  its  essence,  is  nothing 
else  than  slander,  or  traitorhood ; — the  accusing  and  giving 
up  of  good.  In  particular  it  has  blinded  us  to  the  meaning 
of  Christ's  words,  "  Have  not  I  chosen  you  twelve,  and  one  of 
you  is  a  traitor  and  accuser  ?  "  and  led  us  to  think  that  the 
"one  of  you  is  a  devil"  indicated  some  greater  than  human 
wickedness  in  Judas ;  whereas  the  practical  meaning  of  the 
entire  fact  of  Judas'  ministry  and  fall  is,  that  out  of  any 
twelve  men  chosen  for  the  forwarding  of  any  purpose, — or, 
much  more,  out  of  any  twelve  men  we  meet, — one,  probably, 
is  or  will  be  a  Judas. 

The  modern  German  renderings  of  all  the  scenes  of  Christ's 
life  in  which  the  traitor  is  conspicuous  are  very  curious  in 
their  vulgar  misunderstanding  of  the  history,  and  their  con- 
sequent endeavours  to  represent  Judas  as  more  diabolic  than 


382  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

selfish,  treacherous,  and  stupid  men  are  in  all  their  genera- 
tions. They  paint  him  usually  projected  against  strong  ef- 
fects of  light,  in  lurid  chiaroscuro  ; — enlarging  the  whites  of 
his  eyes,  and  making  him  frown,  grin,  and  gnash  his  teeth  on 
all  occasions,  so  as  to  appear  among  the  other  Apostles  in- 
variably in  the  aspect  of  a  Gorgon. 

How  much  more  deeply  Giotto  has  fathomed  the  fact,  I  be- 
lieve all  men  will  admit  who  have  sufficient  purity  and  abhor- 
rence of  falsehood  to  recognise  it  in  its  daily  presence,  and 
who  know  how  the  devil's  strongest  work  is  done  for  him  by 
men  who  are  too  bestial  to  understand  what  they  betray. 


XXXL 
CHRIST  BEFOKE  CAIAPHAS. 

Little  is  to  be  observed  in  this  design  of  any  distinctive 
merit ;  it  is  only  a  somewhat  completer  version  of  the  ordi- 
nary representation  given  in  illuminated  missals  and  other  con- 
ventual work,  suggesting,  as  if  they  had  happened  at  the  same 
moment,  the  answer,  "  If  I  have  spoken  evil,  bear  witness  of 
the  evil,"  and  the  accusation  of  blasphemy  which  causes  the 
high-priest  to  rend  his  clothes. 

Apparently  distrustful  of  his  power  of  obtaining  interest  of 
a  higher  kind,  Giotto  has  treated  the  enrichments  more  care- 
fully than  usual,  down  even  to  the  steps  of  the  high-priest's 
seat.  The  torch  and  barred  shutters  conspicuously  indicate 
its  being  now  dead  of  night.  That  the  torch  is  darker  than 
the  chamber,  if  not  an  error  in  the  drawing,  is  probably  the 
consequence  of  a  darkening  alteration  in  the  yellow  colours 
used  for  the  flame. 


XXXIL 


THE  SCOURGING  OF  CHRIST. 

It  is  characteristic  of  Giotto's  rational  and  human  view  of 
all  subjects  admitting  such  aspect,  that  he  has  insisted  here 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  383 

chiefly  on  the  dejection  and  humiliation  of  Christ,  making  no 
attempt  to  suggest  to  the  spectator  any  other  divinity  than 
that  of  patience  made  perfect  through  suffering.  Angelico's 
conception  of  the  same  subject  is  higher  and  more  mystical. 
He  takes  the  moment  when  Christ  is  blindfolded,  and  exag- 
gerates almost  into  monstrosity  the  vileness  of  feature  and 
bitterness  of  sneer  in  the  questioners,  "Prophesy  unto  us, 
who  is  he  that  smote  thee  ; "  but  the  bearing  of  the  person  of 
Christ  is  entirely  calm  and  unmoved  ;  and  his  eyes,  open,  are 
seen  through  the  binding  veil,  indicating  the  ceaseless  omnis- 
cience. 

This  mystical  rendering  is,  again,  rejected  by  the  later  real- 
istic painters  ;  but  while  the  earlier  designers,  with  Giotto  at 
their  head,  dwelt  chiefly  on  the  humiliation  and  the  mockery, 
later  painters  dwelt  on  the  physical  pain.  In  Titian's  great 
picture  of  this  subject  in  the  Louvre,  one  of  the  executioners 
is  thrusting  the  thorn -crown  down  upon  the  brow  with  his 
rod,  and  the  action  of  Christ  is  that  of  a  person  suffering  ex- 
treme physical  agony. 

No  representations  of  the  scene  exist,  to  my  knowledge,  in 
which  the  mockery  is  either  sustained  with  indifference,  or  re- 
buked by  any  stern  or  appealing  expression  of  feature ;  yet 
one  of  these  two  forms  of  endurance  would  appear,  to  a  mod- 
ern habit  of  thought,  the  most  natural  and  probable. 


xxxin. 
CHRIST  BEAEING  HIS  CEOSS. 

This  design  is  one  of  great  nobleness  and  solemnity  in  the 
isolation  of  the  principal  figure,  and  removal  of  all  motives  of 
interest  depending  on  accessories,  or  merely  temporary  inci- 
dents. Even  the  Virgin  and  her  attendant  women  are  kept  in 
the  background  ;  all  appeal  for  sympathy  through  physical 
suffering  is  disdained.  Christ  is  not  represented  as  borne 
down  by  the  weight  of  the  Cross,  nor  as  urged  forward  by  the 
impatience  of  the  executioners.  The  thing  to  be  shown, — the 


384:  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

unspeakable  mystery, — is  the  simple  fact,  the  Bearing  of  the 
Cross  by  the  Kedeemer.  It  would  be  vain  to  compare  the  re- 
spective merits  or  value  of  a  design  thus  treated,  and  of  one 
like  Veronese's  of  this  same  subject,  in  which  every  essential 
accessory  and  probable  incident  is  completely  conceived. 
The  abstract  and  symbolical  suggestion  will  always  appeal  to 
one  order  of  minds,  the  dramatic  completeness  to  another. 
Unquestionably,  the  last  is  the  greater  achievement  of  intellect, 
but  the  manner  and  habit  of  thought  are  perhaps  loftier  in 
Giotto.  Veronese  leads  us  to  perceive  the  reality  of  the  act, 
and  Giotto  to  understand  its  intention. 


xxxiv. 
THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

The  treatment  of  this  subject  was,  in  Giotto's  time,  so 
rigidly  fixed  by  tradition  that  it  was  out  of  his  power  to  dis- 
play any  of  his  own  special  modes  of  thought ;  and,  as  in  the 
Bearing  of  the  Cross,  so  here,  but  yet  more  distinctly,  the 
temporary  circumstances  are  little  regarded,  the  significance 
of  the  event  being  alone  cared  for.  But  even  long  after  this 
time,  in  all  the  pictures  of  the  Crucifixion  by  the  great  mas- 
ters, with  the  single  exception  perhaps  of  that  by  Tintoret  in 
the  Church  of  San  Cassano  at  Venice,  there  is  a  tendency  to 
treat  the  painting  as  a  symmetrical  image,  or  collective  sym- 
bol of  sacred  mysteries,  rather  than  as  a  dramatic  representa- 
tion. Even  in  Tintoret's  great  Crucifixion  in  the  School  of 
St.  Boch,  the  group  of  fainting  women  forms  a  kind  of  pedes- 
tal for  the  Cross.  The  flying  angels  in  the  composition 
before  us  are  thus  also  treated  with  a  restraint  hardly  passing 
the  limits  of  decorative  symbolism.  The  fading  away  of  their 
figures  into  flame-like  cloud  may  perhaps  be  founded  on  the 
verse,  "  He  maketh  His  angels  spirits  ;  His  ministers  a  flame 
of  fire  "  (though  erroneously,  the  right  reading  of  that  verse 
being,  "  He  maketh  the  winds  His  messengers,  and  the  flam- 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  385 

ing  fire  His  servant ")  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  to  give  a  greater 
sense  of  possible  truth  than  the  entire  figures,  treading  the 
clouds  with  naked  feet,  of  Perugino  and  his  successors. 


XXXV. 

THE  ENTOMBMENT. 

I  do  not  consider  that  in  fulfilling  the  task  of  interpreter 
intrusted  to  me,  with  respect  to  this  series  of  engravings,  I 
may  in  general  permit  myself  to  unite  with  it  the  duty  of  a 
critic.  But  in  the  execution  of  a  laborious  series  of  engrav- 
ings, some  must  of  course  be  better,  some  worse ;  and  it 
would  be  unjust,  no  less  to  the  reader  than  to  Giotto,  if  I 
allowed  this  plate  to  pass  without  some  admission  of  its 
inadequacy.  It  may  possibly  have  been  treated  with  a  little 
less  care  than  the  rest,  in  the  knowledge  that  the  finished 
plate,  already  in  the  possession  of  the  members  of  the  Arun- 
del  Society,  superseded  any  effort  with  inferior  means  ;  be 
that  as  it  may,  the  tenderness  of  Giotto's  composition  is,  in 
the  engraving  before  us,  lost  to  an  unusual  degree. 

It  may  be  generally  observed  that  the  passionateness  of  the 
sorrow  both  of  the  Virgin  and  disciples,  is  represented  by 
Giotto  and  all  great  following  designers  as  reaching  its  crisis 
at  the  Entombment,  not  at  the  Crucifixion.  The  expectation 
that,  after  experiencing  every  form  of  human  suffering,  Christ 
would  yet  come  down  from  the  cross,  or  in  some  other  visible 
and  immediate  manner  achieve  for  Himself  the  victory,  might 
be  conceived  to  have  supported  in  a  measure  the  minds  of 
those  among  His  disciples  who  watched  by  His  cross.  But 
when  the  agony  was  closed  by  actual  death,  and  the  full  strain 
was  put  upon  their  faith,  by  their  laying  in  the  sepulchre, 
wrapped  in  His  grave-clothes,  Him  in  whom  they  trusted, 
"  that  it  had  been  He  which  should  have  redeemed  Israel," 
their  sorrow  became  suddenly  hopeless ;  a  gulf  of  horror 
opened,  almost  at  unawares,  under  their  feet ;  and  in  the 
poignancy  of  her  astonied  despair,  it  was  no  marvel  that  the 


386  GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

agony  of  the  Madonna  in  the  "Pieta  "  became  subordinately 
associated  in  the  mind  of  the  early  Church  with  that  of  their 
Lord  Himself  ; — a  type  of  consummate  human  suffering. 


xxxvi. 
THE   EESUKRECTION. 

Quite  one  of  the  loveliest  designs  of  the  series.  It  was  a 
favorite  subject  with  Giotto ;  meeting,  in  all  its  conditions, 
his  love  of  what  was  most  mysterious,  yet  most  comforting 
and  full  of  hope,  in  the  doctrines  of  his  religion.  His  joy  in 
the  fact  of  the  Resurrection,  his  sense  of  its  function,  as  the 
key  and  primal  truth  of  Christianity,  was  far  too  deep  to  al- 
low him  to  dwell  on  any  of  its  minor  circumstances,  as  later 
designers  did,  representing  the  moment  of  bursting  the  tomb, 
and  the  supposed  terror  of  its  guards.  With  Giotto  the  lead- 
ing thought  is  not  of  physical  reanimation,  nor  of  the  mo- 
mentarily exerted  power  of  breaking  the  bars  of  the  grave  ; 
but  the  consummation  of  Christ's  work  in  the  first  manifesting 
to  human  eyes,  and  the  eyes  of  one  who  had  loved  Him  and 
believed  in  Him,  His  power  to  take  again  the  life  He  had  laid 
down.  This  first  appearance  to  her  out  of  whom  He  had  cast 
seven  devils  is  indeed  the  very  central  fact  of  the  Resurrec- 
tion. The  keepers  had  not  seen  Christ ;  they  had  seen  only 
the  angel  descending,  whose  countenance  was  like  lightning : 
for  fear  of  him  they  became  as  dead ;  yet  this  fear,  though 
great  enough  to  cause  them  to  swoon,  was  so  far  conquered 
at  the  return  of  morning,  that  they  were  ready  to  take  money- 
payment  for  giving  a  false  report  of  the  circumstances.  The 
Magdalen,  therefore,  is  the  first  witness  of  the  Resurrection  ; 
to  the  love,  for  whose  sake  much  had  been  forgiven,  this  gift 
is  also  first  given  ;  and  as  the  first  witness  of  the  truth,  so  she 
is  the  first  messenger  of  the  Gospel.  To  the  Apostles  it  was 
granted  to  proclaim  the  Resurrection  to  all  nations  ;  but  the 
Magdalen  was  bidden  to  proclaim  it  to  the  Apostles. 

In  the  chapel  of  the  Bargello,  Giotto  has  rendered  thi» 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS   WORKS  IN  PADUA.  387 

scene  with  yet  more  passionate  sympathy.  Here,  however, 
its  significance  is  more  thoughtfully  indicated  through  all  the 
accessories,  down  even  to  the  withered  trees  above  the  sep- 
ulchre, while  those  of  the  garden  burst  into  leaf.  This  could 
hardly  escape  notice  when  the  barren  boughs  were  compared 
by  the  spectator  with  the  rich  foliage  of  the  neighbouring  de- 
signs, though,  in  the  detached  plate,  it  might  easily  be  lost 
sight  of. 


xxx  vn. 
THE  ASCENSION. 

Giotto  continues  to  exert  all  his  strength  on  these  closing 
subjects.  None  of  the  Byzantine  or  earlier  Italian  painters 
ventured  to  introduce  the  entire  figure  of  Christ  in  this  scene  : 
they  showed  the  feet  only,  concealing  the  body  ;  according  to 
the  text,  "  a  cloud  received  Him  out  of  their  sight."  This 
composition,  graceful  as  it  is  daring,  conveys  the  idea  of  as- 
cending motion  more  forcibly  than  any  that  I  remember  by 
other  than  Venetian  painters.  Much  of  its  power  depends 
on  the  continuity  of  line  obtained  by  the  half-floating  figures 
of  the  two  warning  angels. 

I  cannot  understand  why  this  subject  was  so  seldom  treated 
by  religious  painters  :  for  the  harmony  of  Christian  creed  de- 
pends as  much  upon  it  as  on  the  Resurrection  itself  ;  while 
the  circumstances  of  the  Ascension,  in  their  brightness,  prom- 
ise, miraculousness,  and  direct  appeal  to  all  the  assembled 
Apostles,  seem  more  fitted  to  attract  the  joyful  contemplation 
of  all  who  received  the  faith.  How  morbid,  and  how  deeply 
to  be  mourned,  was  the  temper  of  the  Church  which  could 
not  be  satisfied  without  perpetual  representation  of  the  tor- 
tures of  Christ ;  but  rarely  dwelt  on  His  triumph !  How 
more  than  strange  the  concessions  to  this  feebleness  by  its 
greatest  teachers ;  such  as  that  of  Titian,  who,  though  he 
paints  the  Assumption  of  the  Madonna  rather  than  a  Pieta, 
paints  the  Scourging  and  the  Entombment  of  Christ,  with  his 
best  power, — but  never  the  Ascension  ! 


388  GIOTTO  AND  HIS    WORKS  IN  PADUA. 

XXXVIII. 

THE  DESCENT  OF  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

Thi8  last  subject  of  the  series,  the  quietest  and  least  inter- 
esting in  treatment,  yet  illustrates  sadly,  and  forcibly,  the 
vital  difference  between  ancient  and  modern  art. 

The  worst  characters  of  modern  work  result  from  its  con- 
stant appeal  to  our  desire  of  change,  and  pathetic  excitement ;; 
while  the  best  features  of  the  elder  art  appealed  to  love  of 
contemplation.  It  would  appear  to  be  the  object  of  the  truest 
artists  to  give  permanence  to  images  such  as  we  should  always 
desire  to  behold,  and  might  behold  without  agitation  ;  while 
the  inferior  branches  of  design  are  concerned  with  the  acuter 
passions  which  depend  on  the  turn  of  a  narrative,  or  the 
course  of  an  emotion.  Where  it  is  possible  to  unite  these  twa 
sources  of  pleasure,  and,  as  in  the  Assumption  of  Titian,  an 
action  of  absorbing  interest  is  united  with  perfect  and  per- 
petual elements  of  beauty,  the  highest  point  of  conception 
would  appear  to  have  been  touched  :  but  in  the  degree  in  which 
the  interest  of  action  supersedes  beauty  of  form  and  colour, 
the  art  is  lowered  ;  and  where  real  deformity  enters,  in  any 
other  degree  than  as  a  momentary  shadow  or  opposing  force, 
the  art  is  illegitimate.  Such  art  can  exist  only  by  accident, 
when  a  nation  has  forgotten  or  betrayed  the  eternal  purpose* 
of  its  genius,  and  gives  birth  to  painters  whom  it  cannot  teach, 
and  to  teachers  whom  it  will  not  hear.  The  best  talents  of  all 
our  English  painters  have  been  spent  either  in  endeavours  to 
find  room  for  the  expression  of  feelings  which  no  master 
guided  to  a  worthy  end,  or  to  obtain  the  attention  of  a  pub- 
lic whose  mind  was  dead  to  natural  beauty,  by  sharpness  of 
satire,  or  variety  of  dramatic  circumstance. 

The  work  to  which  England  is  now  devoting  herself  with- 
draws her  eyes  from  beauty,  as  her  heart  from  rest ;  nor  do  I 
conceive  any  revival  of  great  art  to  be  possible  among  us 
while  the  nation  continues  in  its  present  temper.  As  long  as 
it  can  bear  to  see  misery  and  squalor  in  its  streets,  it  can 
neither  invent  nor  accept  human  beauty  in  its  pictures  ;  and 
BO  long  as  in  passion  of  rivalry,  or  thirst  of  gain,  it  crushee 


GIOTTO  AND  HIS    WORKS  IN  PADUA.  389 

the  roots  of  happiness,  and  forsakes  the  ways  of  peace,  the 
great  souls  whom  it  may  chance  to  produce  will  all  pass  away 
from  it  helpless,  in  error,  in  wrath,  or  in  silence.  Amiable 
visionaries  may  retire  into  the  delight  of  devotional  abstrac- 
tion, strong  men  of  the  world  may  yet  hope  to  do  service  by 
their  rebuke  or  their  satire  ;  but  for  the  clear  sight  of  Love 
there  will  be  no  horizon,  for  its  quiet  words  no  answer  ;  nor 
any  place  for  the  art  which  alone  is  faithfully  Religious,  be- 
cause it  is  Lovely  and  True. 

The  series  of  engravings  thus  completed,  while  they  present 
no  characters  on  which  the  members  of  the  Arundel  Society 
can  justifiably  pride  themselves,  have,  nevertheless,  a  real  and 
effective  value,  if  considered  as  a  series  of  maps  of  the  Arena 
frescoes.  Few  artists  of  eminence  pass  through  Padua  with- 
out making  studies  of  detached  portions  of  the  decoration  of 
this  Chapel,  while  no  artist  has  time  to  complete  drawings  of 
the  whole.  Such  fragmentary  studies  might  now  at  any  time 
be  engraved  with  advantage,  their  place  in  the  series  being  at 
once  determinable  by  reference  to  the  woodcuts  ;  while  qual- 
ities of  expression  could  often  be  obtained  in  engravings  of 
single  figures,  which  are  sure  to  be  lost  in  an  entire  subject. 
The  most  refined  character  is  occasionally  dependent  on  a  few 
happy  and  light  touches,  which,  in  a  single  head,  are  effective, 
but  are  too  feeble  to  bear  due  part  in  an  entire  composition, 
while,  in  the  endeavour  to  reinforce  them,  their  vitality  is  lost. 
I  believe  the  members  of  the  Arundel  Society  will  perceive, 
eventually,  that  no  copies  of  works  of  great  art  are  worthily 
representative  of  them  but  such  as  are  made  freely,  and  for 
their  own  purposes,  by  great  painters  :  the  best  results  obtain- 
able by  mechanical  effort  will  only  be  charts  or  plans  of  pic- 
tures, not  mirrors  of  them.  Such  charts  it  is  well  to  com- 
mand in  as  great  number  as  possible,  and  with  all  attainable 
completeness  ;  but  the  Society  cannot  be  considered  as  having 
•entered  on  its  true  functions  until  it  has  obtained  the  hearty 
-co-operation  of  European  artists,  and  by  the  increase  of  its 
members,  the  further  power  of  representing  the  subtle  studies 
>of  masterly  painters  by  the  aid  of  exquisite  engraving. 


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